delicate

the King is full of compassion

I’m more delicate than I thought I was,

more fragile than I believed.

Sticks and stones break my bones

and jagged edges on iron-sharpened words

know exactly where to slice me.

I’d hoped it wasn’t true -

that my worst fears would not come to be -

but here I am, a broken mess:

wounded, wounding, and healing.

The land is full of wretches -

objects of scorn and contempt -

but the King is full of compassion:

slow to anger,

forgiving many transgressions.

I’d hoped I’d be different,

exempt from the curse of humanity;

unbound by chains of sin and rage

emotion, confusion, ignorance, and pain;

an innocent party in a room full of guilt

an angel in a world of demons;

but my shame will not let me forget my disgrace

and my disgrace will not let me forget my shame.

I am cursed with the memories of past mistakes -

wrongs that I have committed,

and wrongs committed against me -

but the reminder is not that I am a wretch

just like all the wretches that have come before me,

but that the King is full of compassion:

slow to anger, abounding in love

forgiving many transgressions.