I stand over the tub,
peering down
the white, empty

My body heaves
laciniate breaths,
crying out my throbbing

In the garden of Gethesmane,
You cried for Your Father to take
the thorn, my anxiety, to the foothills
where no eyes can see.

My tears come as quick
as rain finding this throughly heated,
parched land these days.
Continuous apologies.

I am sorry I worry.
I am sorry I fear.
I am sorry I hurt.

Your ardor feels distances-
I question my want for stability,
wondering why the promise:
I will hold your right hand continually
has made me weep so bitterly.


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