Painful Honesty

There comes a time when we must be honest with ourselves and the world around us.
Not pretty honesty, politically correct, polite.
Not even kind.
But the honesty that purges out of you,
Confessing and revealing all your bones.

This honesty is no cup of tea, but a brew that strips you bare,
Past the clothes; past the flesh.
Drink it down, this medicine of sorts.
Let it kill the disease that’s been eating you up for so long.

There comes a time when you realize, you’re not the only one in hiding.
Everyone around you is wearing this mask, painted pretty with gold
And somehow each one wonders if they have the only one that is counterfeit.

The Big Man says “ready or not, here I come…” and you scoot as far back in the closet as you can, hoping He won’t see your feet sticking out.
An hour goes by, then another, and another.
Still you won’t let Him find you.

There comes a time when you realize, painful honesty just might change the world.
That maybe if you swallow the lump that has taken up residence in your throat, belt out that high pitched note, and sing loud enough to crack the crank that controls the mask…

Maybe then we’ll all come out of hiding.
Perhaps then our chains will melt like winter snow and allow room for spring.

This is the time to lie back in the fields of earth, tuck your hands under your head allowing the world to see those unshaven armpits.
But take another look and there amongst the hair is a flower.

The Drowning

Is this it?
Love’s murderous hands—holding me under.
Each corner of lung filling with water;
Each tiny capillary busting from pressure.
One moment it’s all about me, it’s what I want.
The next you’ve got me in your hands, whispering “I won’t relent until I have it all…”
The first, second and third death was bearable;
A mere wince at the pain.
But this—this hurts.
You’ve made your way to the core of my heart,
And all must be pushed aside to make room for my true Lover.
Our love makes no sense.
It’s the most complicated, difficult, weakening, and dysfunctional relationship of all—yet something within me says okay.
And I surrender like an addict bowing to her drug.
At my death I wish only to scream, cuss and pound my fist into your chest.
But then I find myself instead weeping in your arms.
I am so mad at your pursuit some days.
And today is one of them…
But here is it: here’s my neck.
Wrap your nail pierced hands and squeeze me into wine.