"There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is no male and female, you are all one in Christ Jesus." Galatians 3:28
I can’t breathe.
The fingers of oppression clench my heart like a knotted rope that ties together my insides and my outsides and my spirit and my hope.
Struggling.
to untangle the mess that is my mind. Tied together with the words inside my brain, racing.
Running from the history that is not mine.
Running from the putrid stench that settles on my skin, like a sheen of rancid oil, once an anointing, now a conviction,
a sentence of guilt,
of injustice that is not mine but is mine
By default.
By demand.
By the generations, my blood choosing to take,
choosing to hate, to wound, to cut and tear and break.
Breaking my spirit
Into
A thousand pieces.
I can’t breathe.
Embarrassed, entitled, entrusted to advocate for others like me… unlike me.
Brothers
and sisters
and daughters
and sons.
Blood of my blood. Adam and Eve. In the beginning. Flesh of my flesh.
Running from the arms of justice. Running from the lopsided one-ness that is humanity.
The reality of the one-mind,
The one-consciousness.
Fractured.
Bleeding.
Longing for unification, a unity, a connection.
Running in all the wrong directions. Clinging and tearing at the same moment. A movement. The same time.
A violent collision of humanity.
Breaking my heart like a hammer to glass.
Screaming a silent wail of man versus women, black versus white, left versus right, north versus south.
Tearing apart a city,
a nation,
a world.
I. Can’t. Breathe.
Ships without moorage
turbulent waters.
Where is the calm? The peacemakers. Peacekeepers. Peace.
Where is the peace?
No peace.
Steady.
Focus.
Streams in the dessert. Water for a thirsty soul. Searching for the answers.
Names for faces.
Alone in the wilderness.
Forty days.
Forty years. Forty centuries. Can it even be true? Can it even rise to the surface now?
Can it be unbroken?
Shards in my flesh.
in my heart.
Bruised.
Aching.
Am I allowed? To ache for the injustice? To mourn, weep, collapse in grief?
Fear.
Shame.
Does my skin betray my heart?
Am I a trope? A contradiction? An oxymoron? A coward? An oppressor?
Does the reflection in the mirror betray my heart?
Words betray love?
Fingers searching
for a caress.
Babes, cling to mothers.
I know you. And I don’t. I want to know you. And I don’t.
I am a broken soul, searching.
Seeking.
Listening.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I.
Can’t.
Breathe.
Comments