Obliterate Me
There’s a fine line between growth
and obliteration.
I find I tread it,
Often.
This place where it’s safe to be nothing
And dangerous to be anything other than
What I truly am.
So I let the weight of the lies
Crush me
Until I’m pulverized
into nothing
but the truth.
I let my bones carve the shape
of angels dancing in the dust
And I breathe in the lingering fragrance of
the soft death
Of everything I used to be.
With praise
And celebration.
As a sacrament
As an offering
As a baptism
As a birthing
To all the growth my spirit yearns for.
Like an acorn growing roots through concrete.
This way,
I become an oak.