The Door

I will forever be the girl waiting by the door, waiting for you to let me in, to sit me down, to tell me all will be okay, that I will be okay, that I am accepted, that I am loved. But you can't always come to the door. You are too busy, too preoccupied with other matters, matters that are more important than my insecurities. You won't always catch me standing there, won't always feel this yearning, my longing to be received. Many times, you'll fail to notice that I am even around. Why bother with me? On the surface, I am strong with a tough exterior, my emotions are contained like the Queen of Swords, not giving away too much but just enough so that others know I am not bothered. But inside, the wall around my heart has already crumbled. She knows not where to go, how to move. She's forced to remain still so that I can take a good look at her. She's no fool. She's broken and she knows it.

No one fusses over me. It does not matter where you place me, whether in a pile of dirt or a bush of burrs, and for how long, I remain silent and alone never uttering a single complaint. It had always been this way. I imagine it will be this way for good. When I was a child, no one had time for kisses and caresses, for storytelling or lullabies. Parents deem themselves fortunate when their child doesn't whine or ask for anything. But when the child grows up, he has learned not to ask for help either.

I wait for you to see but my buffer is stronger than I. I am self-sufficient after all, as a result. Like a pillar, I stand tall and erect. I can't easily be swayed or manipulated. The other thinks I can be because of the way I tilt my head, the words I use, or the language my body speaks but they would be mistaken. These are the ways of the sword, my sword and I am always a step ahead even though on the surface it may appear to be the opposite. Appearances cannot be trusted. What if I allowed myself to fall? Will anyone be around to lay a rug down before me so that my fall is less bruising? I doubt that very much. How can I depend on that kind of help, the kind of help that's really and genuinely required?

You offer peanut butter and crackers. I want peaches and cream. You whisper to be strong but perhaps strength is to be found in allowing myself to be weak. I must stop pretending if only for a little while, must stop pretending that I am above all of this hurt.

Every time you leave me waiting at the door, I feel like I don't belong, like I belong no where. And for some reason, I think of Jesus and then a power comes, an electrical current runs through me and suddenly, I no longer have these feelings. I belong to myself, completely self-possessed. The help I need comes from within fueled by faith and hope. These have not failed me. Ever. I am human though, far too human, in a light I had not seen myself before and this displeases me.

I don't wish to need anything or anyone. Too many disappointments. Far too many let downs. That is the way of the human. I want to be more than human. But first I must forgive, otherwise I will simply fail to be, simply fail to become. How does one forgive with a sword in hand?