[Untitled]

My unfaithful heart
mourns the loss of its idols,
feeling them ripped from my skin
(like Achan—did the gold burn under his stolen robe?
When his clothes were stripped away with his lies,
did it sear his skin to have to give it up?)
Approval…validation…admiration
torn away
scorn, contempt
left in their place,
like sulfur in a wound split open.
Is this Your wound?
Do You break that you may heal?
Or will You leave me this way,
naked and alone?
But I know You better than that.
Still I accuse You of cruelty,
sobbing behind my bloody hands,
raw from where they held the stolen treasure
held it so close and so tightly,
it felt like part of me;
raw from where it had become part of me,
connected and vital,
(torn away)
giving and taking life
Or was it only taking?
Stealing from me?
How could I have thought it was good?
How could it have been bad when it felt…
Why do I feel cut in two,
and You say it’s for my good?
Why?
I look down at my aching hands
bleeding wrists
clean hands
clean hands?
Wrists circled and wounded,
raw
not from a treasure that served me
but from chains that held me
bound me
the chains that had become a part of my skin,
tearing it away when you cut them off,
cut me free