last hope's gaze

i am secret.
i am silent.
i am sometimes forgotten, even by myself.

because i'm too eager to slice a vein and pour my heart out to another, leaving myself parched with life flowing away and yet, i find myself still wondering why i'm so weary.

{via pinterest}

i think it's because i feel selfish when i take, when i turn my eyes inward instead of gazing outward at those around me. because there are broken ones, a thousand of them, and i'm just one.

but i'm still one. and i need to not forget that so easily.

and by One, i am never forgotten. 

why is that we are so able to stretch out fragile arms to those around us, and forget about that person who wears our skin and breathes our air? that one of a kind suit of flesh and blood tangled around soul and spirit and sanctified? 

i think it's okay to be woman. it's okay to taste the sting of death and come out the other side alive. it's okay to not be strong all the time. it's okay to rely on another's arms to bear you up because your legs have turned to shaking, and your heart has turned to thudding. 

you don't forget the face of the person who was your last hope.

// suzanne collins :: the hunger games //

sometimes, that last hope seems impossible to even find anymore. 

but it's there, i promise you.

and when you see it, you never forget His face. 

eyes reprised

{via pinterest}

my obsession with eyes is no secret.

there's something so drawing // stirring // hypnotic about these orbs that peer from beneath curling lashes. there are stories there, just waiting to be read like books with unfurled pages.

eyes are the windows to the soul, the candles of the body. these are His words, though i wish they were mine, too.

but then i started gazing at the closed books, marveling at the covers.

don't judge a book by its cover

but then again, do. 

because the covers tell a lot, even if you aren't supposed to see. 

closed eyes are the covers of the books still shut. someone has to open them. there has to be an invitation.

read me. 

study me. 

just hear me. 

there's more to seeing than open eyes and mutual glances. 

you know that, right? 

those open eyes are even stares, level gazes begging and pleading for you to understand this language, to be a translator to their hidden stories and whispered memories. 

but the closed eyes, the downcast gazes to the dirt and grime of the path...do you realize we ignore them, shuffling past because we don't want to intrude, to infiltrate their silence. 

they must like it there. 

but these, oh, these are the least of these. these are the ones to whom He turned and whispered

neither then do I condemn you.

so there's more to read than just the pages. 

there are paintings atop these closed lids. the lashes are their bolted gates. and my soul craves to reach out to the downtrodden.

because He spoke those words to me, the weary one.

come unto Me

heavy-laden child

and I will give you rest.