You,
you should probably bite your
tongue till it starts to bleed.
Till you can speak no more.
Because I,
I've bled,
till deaf do we part.
Or is it death?
I can't tell anymore.
How do you know if you're still living,
when it feels as though you're stuck
amidst the pain of grieving?
Watching the red liquid rise above your
knees in curious panic at the door?
The wise words say you don't fix that
which is not broken.
So, why do you try and fix me so?
Or am I too good of a woman that I need
to be broken first so that your shining armor comes gallivanting in the nick of
time to save me from the agony I never needed to endure in the first
place?
I've said it before but I'll say it
again—
your armor doesn't fool me with its
glaring shine.
It mirrors the emptiness of your life
and your gruesome crimes.
I don't need to be saved, but I'll take
a knight.
But he needs to be the one whose rusting armor bends beneath the light.
I look forward to the day when you'll
finally get off your high horse.
Recognize that the view from the top
blinded you from the reality that your ways were wrong.
That the advice you've tried to inject
into the blood of my veins were only words you should have swallowed ages ago.
It surely could have saved you.
But it is no matter.
Your supposed Godliness sparkling on
the armor you wear has misled you to believe that you're saved anyway.
You've mistaken the glimmer to reflect
immunity when you seem to be ignorant of the fact that a true knight wears an
armor that lacks luster.
It shines not, for it reflects the wear
and tear of resilience instead.
A taste of true life that unknowingly
creates a man of true caliber, which is true humility.
That is the knight I'll welcome into my
castle. Into my precious time.
And most important of all, into my
sacred heart.
He is the one that fought for God, for
himself and then for me.
And that is the order that it ought to
be.
