Delivery

  There's no easy way to do this, no road that is straight and narrow, no path that lends itself to a weary traveler's feet. Instead, the route she must take is covered with sharp stones of doubt, stinging nettles of pride, thistles made of frustration and glass shards of sharp impatience that pierce her tender and unsuspecting feet.
  Yet she treads on, because she knows that at the end of it, this will all be worth it.
  At least, she hopes.
  It's uphill, this part. There's no grass to cushion the trek, and the bottom of her feet are bleeding now, because sometimes emotions and words and fears cause just as much pain as actual wounds. As she stoops down to staunch the blood, she almost drops her package, causing her to gasp and clutch frantically at the object wrapped brightly in shiny paper, contrasting almost garishly with the stark empty background that surrounds her.
  It is all she can do not to let out a sob. But she knows that her cry will be greeted simply by solitude and silence, some of her most enduring partners in this seemingly unending journey.
  When she started out, it didn't seem so horribly hopeless. Others had made the climb. They had reached the top, delivered their gifts. Did their feet bleed? Did fears plague their every step? Did they cry out in despair?
  She drops to the ground, knees crumpling in the dust as clouds of dirt envelop her tired body and welcome her to the burial ground of defeat where so many others have abandoned their journey, stealing silently back to the foot of the mountain, carrying their gifts, shame piggy-backing on their broken down shoulders.
  Hands. Strong, firm, gentle. Hands that pick her up, set her right, relieve her of her package, heal her wounds, replenish her soul. Hands that open the package meant for them. The package the Ordinary Princess had wrapped so carefully and thoughtfully. Hands that willingly receive her gift.
  The gift of her life and her control and her stubbornness and her will to be perfect. She was giving it all to Him. Wrapped in the shiny package meant for her Lord and her Savior and her King. It wasn't much. Not nearly enough to pay Him back for what He gave her. But it was what she had.
  And so she sat on that mountain, and she surrendered into the hands of the King her thoughts and her problems and her trepidations. Because it was what she had to give. It was all of her. And it belonged entirely, thoroughly, undeniably to Him.
 

Holocaust Shadows

She showed a film in class today.
About the Holocaust.
Dark shadows marched across the screen, some degenerate Germans, some doomed Jews.
All caught in the desperation and dejection and despondency that ate Germany alive, spitting out the bones of the outcasts and ostracized. They were the left-overs.
The unloved.
The hurt and the broken.
They didn't deserve to live.
And it made me wonder about my own humanity and the sin that we so easily fall head over heels in desperate love with.
It made me wonder if, given the chance, I'd do the same.
If I'd join the crowds that hungrily ate the lies and believed the poison fed to them. That they were better. That they were deserving. That they were all that mattered.
And that the others weren't.
I think that's what scares me so much about the Holocaust.
Anytime it's mentioned, it's not the disregarded pile of bodies that have been flung into a heap, all but bones, eye-sockets hollow holes of despair. It's not the horrendous gassings that filled the lungs of little ones as they coughed up their life and naivete and traded in their youth for death. It's not the ripping apart of families, the severing of heart strings, the snapping of father and daughter, sister and brother bonds.
I mean, that cuts. It cuts deep.
But what pierces throughly, all the way to the very central core of my every being is the fact that such sin and darkness lies in all of us. Lurks in the moldy and rotten corners of every humans' heart. It does not take an especially wicked person. For we're all especially wicked.
And it hurts too much to think too hard about human depravity.
About my depravity.
About whether I'd do the same.

Make a name for yourself, dear.

  It's just a name. So why does it seem so taboo. No, not "taboo." That's not the right word.
  Notable. Unique. Special.
  But it's not really. Practically. Inspected from the outside looking in, it's just a name. A sort of ordinary one at that. And plenty of other people say that name day after day, turn it inside out, wear it around like a warm wool sweater, break it in like a pair of old gardening boots caked with the mud and roots and smell of the last spring day. It's used and well-known and garden variety.
  To me, though, it's special. It rarely slips out of my mouth. Because if it does, it might break the spell. The delicately pink-as-a-blushing-bride bubble that shimmers around and makes it exceptional.
  What's in a name? A person's identity lies hidden behind just a few small letters. Everything, every memory, every adjective that describes that one human being. Their crooked smile or the way they lean forward when they have something to say or how they hold their pencil, drumming it absent-mindedly against the desk.
  So why is his so special? Just a few simple letters but don't talk about, don't say them, don't let your mouth form those consonants because the spell might be broken, the magic might be lost, the eggshell flimsy and fragile connection of his name to my heart might be severed.
  Like a pair of scissors sharp as the tongue cutting through the silver string that links my heart to my soul to my head to my feelings for him. Silly feelings that make little sense. Feelings that I've denied and resented and denied again. But they're there. As plain as his name printed, letters stamped out and marched forward military-strict by a pen, inky boots leaving behind his name, black and formal and serious and beautiful on crisp white paper.
  It's just a name.
  Just a name.
  His name.

Blood-letting Emotions

  You're numb. Blood drowning in quiet and apathetic ennui as it goes pumping through your veins, bringing with it a dull thump thumping of your heart. I am. I am. I am.

  You're here. But you're the only one who sees you. Others push you aside with their glances, misunderstanding. Or, even worse, not knowing that you're devastated. Not knowing that their careless words, dropped so heedlessly to the ground, were picked up by you and examined, turned over carefully and placed so close to your heart. 

  You're gone. You've flown from this situation, your wounded soul rushing out the door, scurrying quickly, leaving behind a hurried -- "Good riddance." Your body is still here though, so you adjust the counterfeit smile on your face but there's no smile behind your eyes. Because the soul is long gone, and there's nothing to shine out of your eye-holes anymore. 

  You're happy. Because you have to be. Because that's your reputation. Because if you're not, people might start to question why, and you don't have the time or the energy to explain because it just hurts to answer. And it's just all such a tangled mess -- like christmas lights that wrap around themselves in storage and are impossible to unravel. Although your heart is slightly more fragilely frail then christmas lights. 

  You're cutting through. The knife on your skin, slicing. Figuratively. 

  You're blood-letting. But not truly, for you don't release crimson drops of life. You release emotions. What trickles down your arm is jealously and humiliation and despair and regret and pain and the memories that you thought you had let go of but still hide out in your wishes and desires. 

  You're letting it all go. What sweet release. The emotions flow from your veins. 

  You're free. 

Hello, 19

  It's time.
  She creeps down to the cellar, her bare feet pitter pattering on the worn wood. The dust scurries away as she sweeps into the room, her eyes searching, her heart pulled like a puppet on a string. She knows what and why and how. Now she must squelch the "when?" with a knowing glance, and now she must do what she alone can do and what she knows needs to be done.
  It's there, on the third shelf, hiding behind some christmas ornaments and home videos and a broken lampshade; and she can sense it.
  As she stretches up, her small hands catching the box and bringing it back down close to her heart, she sighs a whole-hearted sigh. She carefully clutches the cardboard box for all she's worth, for it holds the memories of a year.
  Her year.
  Her 18th year, to be precisely exact.
  In it lie the good: the books that wrenched out her soul and replaced it, adjusting her view of life. The stolen kisses that signaled goodnight and goodbye and I miss you and want you. The family and friends, old and new, who encouraged her and stuck by her and who she couldn't live without. Running out her heart, writing out her wishes, graduations, and celebrations, salutations of those she adored.
  In it lie the bad: the nights where she didn't know what would happen and she painted her pillow with mascara and tears. The harsh words of critics and, even worse, the knife-stabbing comments of so-called friends. The days where she felt swallowed up and spit out, and the days where she just couldn't go on. The battles of frustration, the depressed dreary days, and the goodbyes of dear, dear friends.
  She revisits and remembers and regrets but a few.
  For each made her stronger, made her heart a little bigger, made her smile a little brighter. Made her even more of herself.
  A smile slowly dances up the sides of her mouth and breaks out into a full grin as she covers up the box and replaces it on the shelf. For it's time to begin an even better year.
  Hello, 19.