the hard thing // letting Him bleed

{via pinterest

{over the next several weeks, maybe even months, i will be writing here and there from elora's thirty days of prompts. this is something that i have never done before, something raw and fresh and gorgeous and potentially painful. so please, be gentle with me. you can find all posts i have written from these prompts here}

i'm a hypocrite. 

quite frankly, writing that sentence up there took a solid fifteen minutes and i'm still sitting here looking at those terrifying three words and considering deleting them and being a little less honest. but that's the point, isn't it? 

because i'm all about whispering soft to warrioress souls, reaching my fingers out to them, while locked down in my heart with my fingers curled into unrelenting fists. not of freedom but of tightness, of a strange sort of rebellion that doesn't make me all that eager to be transparent. 

i heard a spoken word piece {of sorts} when i was younger, before i knew what spoken word was and just how much that concept would have a grip on my soul. i remember being fourteen and sitting there in that room with my eyes closed and listening to the faceless voice speak. 

hands up, clenched, control. 

hands down, release, open palms. 

it's not that fist pumping of warrioress pride, it's that raging face to the wind that screams i will not let go and You cannot make me. the past several months have involved a lot of tears, a lot of weeping, and whole lot of unattractive raging that would put those of you who read my words far away from me. 

i'm willing to reach out and touch the broken ones like He did. but i won't let myself be broken. and if i am, if i find myself in pieces on the floor, He can't touch them. those pieces are mine, and He might cut His fingers, and then i would be responsible for cutting the Saviour. so i shut down, and slam the door behind me, and leave Him standing there

knocking.

and that knocking doesn't stop no matter how deep i press against the back of the wardrobe with a fur coat wrapped around my head. but it's scary to look at myself in the mirror on the inside of the door. because i want to be Lucy, little seeker lioness with Narnian renewal in my braveheart steps. 

{photo of myself, taken by Photography by Kjelse}

but i'm Edmund with a belly full of darkness weighing heavy. i'm a scaled Eustace with a smug sort of blaming everyone else for my failtures. i remember the words they shared on the beach. "you weren't as bad....you were only a jackass, i was a traitor." me, see, i'm both. 

but then i realize that they were changed. and that Lion bared His claws and ripped the vileness from the skin of he who was too weak to do it himself. i want to shed my skin. 

He's okay with cutting His fingers and bleeding for me. after all, He already shed every drop with my name shivering with sacred Love in every cell. 

i just need to let the control slip from my fingers. i need to let Him bleed. 

i'm leaving a pile of burned dragon scales, ugly and broken, on the sand. and i'm stepping out on the back of the Wind, His back, broad and soft and warm. 

and gently He hums into my hair
the worst is over. 
there is no need to talk of what has past.