I'm small.

 

And I've got kinks,

in my hair,

in my spirit.

 

I'm small and I'm odd.

 

My mind developed a bit differently;

it was both constrained and released,

forged in the fires of a paradox.

 

I'm small and I'm odd and I'm weak.

 

I've got a fragile spirit.

I'm brittle to the touch and I worry about all the hands reaching out to me.

Where they've been,

if they'll leave me,

and what exactly are they slicing through ?

 

I'm small and I'm odd and I'm weak and I'm cold.

 

I switch on and off with my ambiguity.

Not because I'm weighing all sides,

but because I'm scared to be bound to one.

Imprisoned or responsible,

I want no part.

 

I'm small and I'm odd and I'm weak and I'm cold and I'm scared.

 

And this is the quality most worrisome,

because I read devotionals telling me not to be.

Telling me not to be anxious,

to rest my spirit in the will of God,

to burn away and purge and eradicate the soul I think mine for what I may receive from another.

And I try,

and I fail because it's hard.

It's hard to burn away the closest thing you can touch for something far obscured. 

But supposedly it's better to give my self up,

for it's not really anything at all;

At least that's what I've gotten from what the pastors say,

and the writers,

and the force of the Word himself.

 

And this may be what is brightest: I'm small and I'm odd and I'm weak and I'm cold and I'm scared and I'm open.

A burning, searing, open wound.

I feel the split of soul, body, and spirit.

I feel the struggle,

I feel the fight,

and I work through it each day.

 

The metaphoric is the metaphysic,

and that is what I am most of all.