His
They didn’t say I’d lost my mind,
but I saw it in the way their eyes flickered,
in the tight pull of their mouths,
like they were afraid to ask where I’d gone.
Like I had left it tangled in the weeds of some backroad,
scattered like gravel off a highway they’d never take.
They didn’t say I’d stopped making sense,
but I had never fit right in their world anyway.
I laid it all before them—
the toll of my trespass, swollen like storm-thick air,
the black pit in my chest, split wide like torn earth.
The descent, the reaching hand, the rescue.
I told them I had never known love like this,
never been free until chains slipped from my skin.
Christ was not distant, not imagined—
His presence filled the hollows between my ribs,
rushed into my lungs like the first breath after drowning.
And while they studied me like a faded photograph,
held at arm’s length,
searching for the girl they used to know,
I shattered.
Something infinite cracked open in me, something ancient and watching.
Water dragged at my clothes, clinging to my flesh,
sobbing, shaking, folding under something too vast to hold in.
I wanted to scream—
not in fear, not in anger,
but because I had seen the truth.
And nothing could unmake it.
Eyes wild, chest heaving—
I didn’t care.
Let it pull me under.
Let it strip me bare.
Let it be carved into my beating heart.
Because when the water peeled from my skin,
so did every name I was never meant to wear.
Hopeless, failure, burden, lost—
they unraveled,
sank like stones into the dark.
And when I rose,
feet pressed to the grainy carpet,
with voices ringing through the rafters like silver fire,
and light streaming through stained glass,
casting crowns of gold across the walls,
as if even the air knew who I belonged to,
I knew—
I could sleep on the cold ground forever
and still lack nothing.
I could walk a hundred years alone
and never be forsaken.
I knew because,
I was His.
Let them call me any name He never did—
blind, broken, brainwashed.
Let them say I lost my mind.
I was never theirs to understand.
