You did the best you could
with what you were given.
I’ve said it for years,
for my sake and yours.
The impossible madness that
has ravaged your soul
tried to destroy mine as well.
You begged to be saved
an absurdity of helpless, hopeless.
Did you call me messiah or merde?
I gathered up my best outfit,
and brushed my hair.
Spoke softly, listened intently,
hugged and cried for shadows.
You tilted your head and said,
I think it’s You.
Running toward the mirror
widening my tear-filled eyes,
expectation was understood.
But with skinny, childish arms
too weak to rescue,
I looked nothing like Jesus.



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