Searing shards of agony tear my heart apart,

Word swords are exchanged,

slashing and bleeding,

bleeding and slashing,

Until eventually, violence erupts, replacing anger with regret, finally.

 

To sit alone and endure,

the sharp words from those who know nothing of me,

incite mosquito bites of summer,

unknowing,

but in need of blood from another living soul.

 

Your thrusts are not the same.

You know me; I thought you loved me,

Do you love me?

How can you say such things if you do?

Is it to hurt me, or just to say something that will penetrate my bug repellent?

 

So now we sit,

exhausted,

covered in blood and tears,

finding bandages and warm water to nurse wounds opened many times,

with scars on scars, on scars.

Enough.

 

 

 

 

If only the thoughts didn’t do their daily work-out,

working their way free from the bondage of niggle to irritation,

then climaxing with my bad desire to communicate—to tell you how I feel about that habit or the dress that makes you look like grandma.

Why did you set me off?

Or did I set me off?

 

Meanwhile Lucifer,

now old; tired of revolving heads and horror movie re-runs, works diligently behind a newfound curtain.

Facebook and textifying,

Twittering and emailage,

ohhhh these new means of fear and disturbance,

All packaged up in something that can do good.

But so much evil as well.

The perfect disguise!

 

Relationships destroyed by a single text message,

embarrassing photos of a long forgotten misstep,

families separated when once adjoined.

All in the god of Social Networking.

If he could rejoice, he would!

10 points to the Pain team. Thank you.

 

 

 

But then we reflect,

taking minutes or years to see what pain is inflicted,

Where we are hurt, where we have hurt,

And gradually, sometimes over an ages a mist is lifted from this dreadfulness,

revealing a house on the lake, as dawn rises.

The home of forgiveness, where everyone is invited, and everyone rests.

 

So now, the pain is gone, and so is the scar, as if a miracle.

Of which it is.

The miracle of love, eventually all scars are gone,

Now I am beauty itself, not made by me, but by another.

It’s not the skin I see, but below,

not blood,

or vessels,

or muscles,

but me.

The inner me that God made,

and I made only by letting Him mold me.

 

He is beauty; and pain made me beautiful, to Him and to some others.

Even if they still see the scars,

they are gone.

Just memories of a time when I wanted to hurt,

or be hurt.

How selfish is that.

For beauty is selfless.

For Beauty is God.