I hate the days I feel like a foreigner in my own body.
As though my soul is bouncing around in this ill- fitting skin suit, trying as it might to hide like a sheep in wolves clothing.
I'm scared I will be seen for what I fear I am, not enough.
Not nice enough.
Not pretty enough.
Not skinny enough.
Not thic enough.
Not fit enough.
Not smart enough.
Not desirable enough.
My mind is trapped inside this self made iron maiden, trying to stay focused and still enough so as not to rip myself open on the jagged edges of worldly opinions.
Yet every night I seem to come back, collapsing in a pile at your feet;
marred and bleeding out.
I am a mess of blood and tears,
salt and iron,
sorrow and weakness
unfit in your presence.
So when your gentle voice calls me child it still comes as a shock after all this time.
You cup my face in your hands, the scar tissue from the nails rough on my cheek.
I look upon your face, the scars from the thorns on your forehead, the crown you still choose to wear even now.
You smile kindly, reminding me that the world gave you scars too.
Your tell me of all that I am,
that you find me not only desirable but overwhelmingly loveable.
That I am made in your image, no mistake was made upon my creation.
I begin to cry once more, confessing through sobs how hard it is to see the you in me.
How I am blinded by the glitter and shine of the world around me.
That I find it too hard most days to find the source of the light of your righteousness, that I have come to cover up with the frivolity of fleeting pleasure.
You tell me to look at you in all the simplicity of your glory and awesomeness.
This is my beacon.
This is how I must direct myself back to you amongst the raging sea of my own doubt.
You tell me I must rest in the lighthouse beam you provide for me and let you calm my waters.
So show me how to amplify the you in me.
Show me the beauty you created in this worldly beast.