When I See Your Face

I see little scraps of me,

The one I used to hate,

but always go looking for,

like maybe I'll find her

in your photo, hidden

behind forehead

and cheeks,

crouching down

And scared of everyone

else, but mostly me.

And I get that.

I was scared of me, too

for a long, long time,

wondering when I'd

give in, give up, give over,

Give anything not to be

me anymore.

And if you want to know

Why I talk so much about

(and to) Jesus,

Biting my tongue hard

sometimes until I taste the

blood of everything I

did that He died for,

It's because I just couldn't

do it myself.

No amount of Plath

or Sexton or Camus

or Beckett taught me

to live, only to die,

But frankly, I was pretty

damn good doing that

on my own.

It's only Jesus, I want to tell

you and the world, and

that guy that rides that kid-sized

dirt bike down our street,

His face so serious, and making

me laugh because that's all of us,

isn't it? Pretending we haven't

turned our Garden into utter

absurdity,

like an overgrown man

struggling for the last few

strands of his pride,

lost in the weeds.

I'm sorry.

That's all I really want to say,

and that I love you.

And that, no, I've never

been good enough,

never will be,

But He is.

And really,

none of us

are as scary

as we think.