Part IV · Fallout
Psalm 139
Identity.
Fragile. Fickle. Shaped—
by your touch.
Amputated, manipulated, formed—
by your words.
Resigned to be unknit
from my mother’s womb.
Destruction. Distraction. Demise.
My last breath came well before the altar.
Altered by dissonance,
you said,
“All is well,”
even as your iron fist trembled.
“You might be the man
I want you to be.”
In the distance—
my former self,
begging, pleading,
to be seen.
Locked away with your key,
exiled into someone you needed,
not who I was.
Musical notes inked in honor—
a loner’s hope.
But when you tasted my voice,
you spit it out.
Note by note,
you dismantled my self-assurance.
Exalted by sinners, not saints.
Adequate only in your eyes.
Passions—
hobbies—
disillusionment.
Withered to fate.
Cyclical insecurity.
Compounding beliefs.
Toppled
by your non-harmonious deceit.
Retreat.
Still—
I was knit in my mother’s womb.
Undone
not by God.
But by you.
Abandoned.