To the Girl Who Died

From Pinterest

The girl was dead.

Not in body, but in soul,

Like the enemy had come in the watches of the night

And destroyed all the good crop that sprouted in her childhood.

And it didn’t cross her mind that anything was wrong.

And it smote me.

A well-aimed knife between the shoulder blades.

She was dead, and I mourned.

Yet she was beautiful, perfectly slender, with beautiful eyes that—

That were windows to her decaying soul.

The world is good at faking life.

It’s cruel.

Can there be hope in the depths of the soul?

Can there be life in the garden that tasted utter destruction?

Because they planted, we watered, but where is the growth?

Why did death overshadow her and plunge her into the abyss of darkness

Deep and wide as the sin that wracks the ribs of the world even now?

Yet is sin any more than an illusion, a fraud?

Christ drowned it in His blood.

So what happened?

What happened, little girl, what broke you?

Because when you broke, you shattered,

And then you got on your hands and knees and

You tried to piece the little girl back together again.

On your own.

But you didn’t know how to, so instead you built walls,

Dungeons and catacombs and pits and snares,

And you grasped your ankle and closed the manacle around it,

And sat in the darkness to hide.

And when sin crouches at the door you call him friend.

You let him strip you of everything and you call it good.

And my soul burns within me and I feel the words pulsating through my veins like fire,

There is light, there is light, there is light.

There is hope, little one, there is light.

Just open your eyes.