Midnight Music

I Chose You

This is the part of the story where I don't want to be a feminist anymore.
No more biting apples to know more.
No more one upping you.
I'm just here broken and brandished with scars from my neck to my most sacred parts.
You look at me like vandalized property,
But my Saviour sees me as gracefully broken.
The poetry I write is no longer a satire to life.
I aspire to achieve the right to a family.
A freedom to be organically nourished and refreshed by the waters of baptism.
Enough with the misogyny. Teach me to love again.

Since we were small we learnt to be bitter.
Iron sharpens iron, you chop wood like a man .
You speak to me with motion.
Your vision is wrapped up in God's master plan.
Then you sit back in your seat drawing the thin line between therapist and therapy.
Your voice is therapeutic, can't you see?
A  strong voice makes me free but you show ne daily that there's no freedom in you and me.

Double back on the double texting and the delayed replies, I G shots of the inside of her thigh.
Why do I lie to myself and believe that you and I are fighting for the same things.
We're both backsliding and I decided that colliding would make a big difference.
You say you're busy you're busy you're busy.
Words mean nothing to me but action is a man's armour.
Faith without works is dead and the storyline line is dying.
I feel like I'm reading eulogies trying to keep you here.
Trying to keep up with your affairs.

Why do I do it you ask?
Inside of me is a little girl still trying to piece together her misery to identify exactly where it went wrong.
I'm known for putting things together.
Inside of me is Eve tying the knot between the living and the dead, consecrating myself to misery of birthing everything that has breath.
Inside of me is the genes of a Creator whose hands crafted the universe.
The culmination of lights linger in the deep darkness because it was His portion and He lives in me.
But it was never my destiny to plant seeds.
God created me to produce, He gave me a garden,
Yet I am not the gardener.

Who is a man that cannot grow seeds?
That cannot work the land and plant trees?
Christ, the foundation and man the home on which it stands.
There are no seeds planted within me and therefore I cannot bare fruit.
I pray one day I get a gardener who knows how to work the land, a man who can stand and point in the direction of God.
And all he can afford is the portion of the Lord.

So I'm in my era of fruit baskets and flowers,
Fresh orange juice hand picked from the backyard,
Mutton that's home grown and eggs in abundance.
My love is like freshly baked bread, it's the smell of chocolate chip cookies straight out of the oven.
Buy me aprons and cook book.
Take me skating and kayaking.
I'd love to smell the sweet dew of raindrops drip drip into the green apartheid of leaves.

My love is slow and seeping.
It's a quiet morning in autumn and you can get cozy
Kick your feet up on the sofa and enjoy your coffee.
I want love that makes you feel the distance of a - till 6pm work-shift.
The office should feel like a jail cell.
I want home to feel like a sanctuary.

Maybe it's not what you want.
Maybe I'd never know what you want.
But I can't continue to gaslight myself into believing you'd one day turn around and choose me.
My best friend said that I always chase after the things I can't have.
The whole concept of chasing is a red flag.
My God gives me breath everyday day, a body to live and a message to say. He gave purpose and passion, words of wisdom and glorious fashion.
So who am I to be the daughter of a Living God.
To place my crown down on dirty lies to appease to human condition.