I don't usually write things to explain a thing — I want this to speak for itself and be open ended, but I want to say I wrote this one with some friends in mind who I've known over the years who have fought thoughts that tell them life isn't worth it or they aren't. I personally haven't experienced everything I wrote about here, but my heart rivers out to those who have. This one is for them, but its for me and you too, because regardless of what your warring with up in the head, it's all the same battleground. Different faces, different demons, same warzones. We are warheads together, you and I. We are all, in some way, fighting invaders and voices that lie through their teeth. Its negativity that we're after here—darkness. Whether it's thinking your life isn't worth living, or obsessing over numbers on a scale, or talking yourself down until you can hardly hold yourself up, or whether it's something else, we're going to kick this thing. We're going to win.
I read this in first Corinthians the other day and I don't think I could put it much better: be confident of one thing: no testing will come your way which has not been experienced by other human beings. [Chapter ten verse twelve]
We're in this thing together, alright? got your back. This one's for the darkness fighters.
I'll sit on the floor beside you and we can watch the writing on the wall together. I'll listen while you tell me that you've heard it all before but then I'll tell you something you've never have heard before.
I know that after a while this world becomes a muted place; mouths move but nothing comes out. Reaching lungs find thin air on shelves they can barely reach. Nothing is ok. I'm sorry we told you that it was, I'm sorry we made you feel like you were insane, because we're all over here eating and regurgitating and eating our darkness but it's
I'm sorry about all of that.
The red lines under your sleeves, the teeth marks on the backs of your hands, the mines you keep stepping on behind your forehead, the weapons,
It's not ok. I'm not going to tell you that it is. I'm just going to take your palms in mine and lift them high and read them aloud so you can know that your skin has a message for your head:
Those monsters living at the ends of your arms were made for life, not death, were made with claws to rip apart the dark and spill the contents of the thoughts that aren't ours out across the floor. They were made to make not take, because reading in between those lines all I see is
Death is for the dead and we were one of them once but now we've broken surface into something bigger. I'm not telling you to run from death I'm telling you that you already died, and so did I and maybe we should start using our fingers to pull the trigger on the ghosts inside that can't
scream as loud
as we can.
We scream louder but we remain silent in the presence of the apparitions that spray paint our inadequacies on the walls of our heads—
speak out loud to that empty room. yell.
I still have those threads you wove together and gave me, I still have them tucked in between the pages of my Bible. I still see you in the crowds with your elbow joints fighting to be seen through your skin, I still see you in the mirror. I wish I could tell you how much you are a meteorite in this night but my mouth is just moving and no words are coming out.
No I'll just keep reading those palms until you can read them yourself; until you can make out the words.
Every single line and every single beat and every single drop of blood and water and light that makes you up has the demons running for cover, the earth trembling under your feet. You are so much more than the bones you can see in the mirror. More than the knives and the sleepless nights and the scratches on your skin. more than the food you wouldn't let yourself eat. More than the judge that you try to be, and more than the punishments you pass on yourself. more than the sentences. You are not any of this. You are not the darkness, you
you are the beginning of the end of that darkness.
You are the dawn. You are the light. You and the mess you made and the tired brain inside your head are the northern lights.
So I won't talk. I won't tell you the things you've already heard.
I'll just give you back your hands and let them tell you a different story.