The Way To Salvation

Hate screams in my face; parading itself. The white of the sunlight filters through dark bedroom curtains made of wool and crimson.

I contemplate abandoning a mouth of silence. Lips obedient to scriptures whisper in my heart that I should deny this fight and choose wisdom instead;
choose to walk past a body raging and put my hands up to feel the form of godliness telling me to open my eyes because there are things I’m still not seeing.

Like the view in my mind as I look to the view outside of this window. The way to salvation is found in the release of the way I think things are supposed to be felt. The view outside of this flesh reminds me that I am changing seasons.

That the winter cold is only anger. It is only the dark streets at the midnight of my giving in; a winter of pride telling me to fight back. To disengage from clarity and accept that violence is the way.

That because I have fists I should use them to dent temporary angst into a demonic fixation. That I should stab at a chance for growth. That little mouths that scream big words means that big mouths that scream small ones should dictate the end of a conversation.

Truth is, the view outside of this window tells me that it’s the light inside of God that gives light to the day that surrounds me and exposes the darkness of my body, blood, spine and hands. These hands could be turned into chokeholds or opportunities; bondage or they could hold me until I feel a touch other than ego, wrath, hunger or pain.

In the distance behind me she still screams as if her lungs could be my crucifixion. Ahead of me I see crosses and I tell God through my tears that I don’t think that I can carry another one. I don’t think I can take the mocking of their faces and the weight on me as the splinters dig in. I tell God that I am not able to be like Christ today.

I’m too tired. I’m too afraid. I’m too expectant of the nine hours I would have to hang in order to undo me. I’ve seen it before. I remember Simon Peter. I remember John. I remember the voice that told me I was adopted and not my mother’s own. She called me LoAmmi and meant it.

I remember the psychotic days where I cried out for someone in my life to see me; hear me. But they only walked out of the room and stepped over my body knelt in low places right in front of them. I remember my fear of death. If I could scream I might finally recognize my own voice.

But I’m here in this room as if I’m in a system of inherited rage and though I’m standing under an echo of humiliation, I choose to remind myself of God’s word and of the strength that is in my hands.