fighter part two

this little house so familiar

as she tip toes down

the hall

white walls 

stained with fingerprints of

where she's leaned against the

bones of this empty corridor

skeleton it has been as she's pulled

her scraped knees to her chest

and all the times she's let

herself weep 

with no allowed comforting

closed and broken, holding that pain in,

somehow twisted belief that 

brave and strong mean 

"alone".

old faded books on shelves 

where she sits

and reads a story on the pages 

written by a younger, hopeful girl,

words to a boy that meant so much

more to her than they ever would to him.

sorrow seeps in like cold air 

drifting across the floorboards now 

as she walks through these

empty rooms to sit once again,
with her back
to the front door,

tears fall down in streams,

as she's filled with the weight,

of remembering.

though this house is far too familiar,

there are things only time have

or could reveal to one so set 

on her belief that

she was stronger on her own.

three long breaths as she rises to her feet,

no she's not the girl,

anymore who believes in 

self inflicted suffering.

three fast beats as she reaches for

the handle,

this house no longer is her hiding place:

there is a freedom,

in turning the rusted lock 

on that heavy oak door.

though it took a pain deeper 

than words know to speak,

she's learned that no one else can

choose this for her.

a light so gentle and a voice so tender

as His presence always is,

her Abba whispers 

"there you are".

He's always waiting for her, 

on the other side of that door, those

eyes speak words not yet 

uttered. 

He's a fighter, a fighter I say,

with eyes of fire.