some girls write songs
or poetry
about boys who broke
their hearts
and left them with the
fragmented pieces
as they
try desperately to
fit them back together
into something
not even
resembling
what they
once were
all the while
not accepting
that loving means
we break
and
we break.
and though i could
write pages and pages
just describing the pain,
i won't because i choose
to forgive you
even in the agony of
the bleeding wound
you made.
but,
if my tears were measured
in mason jars
there would be enough
to fill up every room
and every hallway
of this little house.
if it was summer
you could sit
in the back yard,
resting your feet
over the edge
of the pool,
emptying all
the evidence of
my pain
until you had
enough salt water
to swim in.
if weeping could
be silent
then no one would
ever know
that i hardly sleep
some nights.
the thoughts that
haunt me
in the dying twilight
they certainly aren't pretty
though i've learned not
to rely on
the things that promise
they'll numb me
when my aching heart
pleads for
comfort and for peace.
some girls
they write bitter poetry,
and i'm trying my best
to write in honesty,
but i don't
believe that
bitterness would do
anything but
poison my heart.
all that would happen
is the fragile air
in this house
would become damp
again
moldy from the
lack of light,
from shutting the
world outside.
so every time i'm tempted
to deadbolt the
front door,
and shut out
all the pain for
the burden
i carry for you
i remember the
dreadful thing a
broken heart becomes
when you let
anger build stiff walls
around the wounds
of your heart
that someone
you've loved deeply
has made.
instead i've learned
to give this agony
and sorrow
to the greatest healer,
the one who knows
every bit of my pain.
what would we become?
if we thanked him
not only for the blessings
but for the trials
he allows
for if we let him
he'll redeem
all of our sin and
brokenness.
if i am nothing
without
Yashua's love
than i cannot allow
unforgiveness
in my heart;
not even in the
smallest of ways.
Don't ever stop writing
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