Shielding the Scars
i hide the parts i think are ugly
cover their imperfection
but that often looks like
a full-length fur coat for a day on the beach
pompous, out of place
and exposing none of the real me beneath.
i'm afraid my ugly will spill -
and it does.
i act as if it's either really important to seem best
or weaken the story that knows first-is-last
Scars that shield
i also hide behind my scars,
those raw and purple wounds
the ones that left me for dead
only i survived, somehow.
i think if i build a wall
i'm more protected,
and people will want to know me
the real me,
except they can't get past the pretend beauty/exterior.
sometimes i think he keeps me broken
so the scars can't will themselves
to being unknown
so i can be a story of Grace
with no help but to open heart and soul
bleed onto others
it's in the giving, the bleeding
glimpse into my imperfection
i can't save myself
can only rely so heavily,
head resting low and hard, on Him,
on allowing you to be his arms hugging me.
building walls/tearing down
know that grace is loving me
not despite ugliness
but because of it;
shields being lowered not because we're safe
but because we're not,
for his love is wild and reckless and ruthless and Grace.