I feel like a shattered stained glass window.
The few truths I had lie shattered into the dirt and while half of me leaks sorrow for them, another part desperately wants to smash my bare feet into them, swirling them into the dirt with my metallic honesty as I accept the fallacy my life
I was put together at one point, I know that much. I also know that my insides were scotch taped with ragged edges to keep the outside beautiful. I know happiness twirled and danced until being kicked into submission, pushed into a box and kept under lock and key. Confusion took over then, trying to keep up with the tears in our facade.
Thank god they only used scotch tape on my glass like insides.
I wonder if churches do the same; I wonder if they scotch tape the parts of themselves they would rather the outside not see. Most would see this as ethically relevant but I think some go as far as to resort to scissors, cutting off excess parts despite all the bleeding.
I wonder how much blood sits beneath the pew seats.
I wonder at exactly which time I was slaughtered there, carried into the back and stored in the wardrobe where we keep baptism robes, because only our ghosts are as white as those sheets.
I always loved the quiet of an empty sanctuary: the
times when it’s dark and silent, and it feels like your mind can touch the ceiling as your thoughts drift and dry through the air lazily; it’s so comforting.
I think that’s as close to God as I have ever gotten.
I love those that surround me there, but the silence in smiles reminds me of the dripping sound beneath my pew that only a few of us ever seem to hear; those I fellowship with have thoughts much louder than I’d ever let mine dare to be.
Maybe that’s why I always wanted to break that god-forsaken stain glass window. Maybe that’s how I realized how alone I felt while surrounded by family, because I didn’t want to be the only shattered art piece in the room!
And when I finally decide to put myself on display, maybe I will break that window, so when they decide to reach for the scissors, at least my blood will land on something beautiful.
Because that green carpet turns scarlet translucent, the bathroom stall walls muffle cries better than an empty desert and hugs are always followed by thoughts of what if they knew.
What if they knew I wasn’t blind and deaf to the tragedies occurring in that building the way they are? What if
they knew I had a hard time coming through those
doors not because I don’t feel at home there, but because their homely hospitality isn’t for me.
It’s for a girl I can’t be.
Because I’m a shattered stained glass window, and they like their pieces put together in delicate patterns by dollar store scotch tape and hands holding scissors, but I much prefer mine in the dirt if that’s the only way to find myself.
I think maybe one day I’ll put myself together, though I’m not sure what I’ll build. I only have these torn bits of scotch tape repression and a box my depression keeps a tight hold on.
I still think the glass is beautiful though; cracks and shatters create a mosaic that at least isn’t trying to hide.
Maybe one day it will form a self portrait.
One day, I won’t feel the need to break stained glass windows.
Maybe one day, they’ll see the blood on the floor.