Let me tell you about a story I wrote all on my own

With a future all planned out, avoiding hurt and making myself known

I stole the pen from my maker

His daughter? Let ME take her

As some words never turned into sentences I told myself I would figure it all out

Without my permission a word crept in: doubt

Where my identity was found in the miles that I ran- how far and how fast

Little did I know it would create a worth that didn’t last

Stronger, faster, and better were the girls I came across

Forcing the pen to hit the paper about the “self” that I had lost

But I would write again, never giving in

I’d begin to let a boy write my story

Where he would find my significance for me

That chapter never seemed to end because my pen was passed from one to another

As the ink stained paper screamed “Nobody will ever love her!”
My fingerprint tainted pen was stolen from my grasp

Bringing to surface nightmares of words these boys left in my past

As I longingly and desperately searched for a beautiful ending to this chapter

Love and acceptance was all that I was after

But the story turned dark

As the seams fell apart

My pen again I would steal

And with the devil I would make a deal

No longer needing to feel was now apart of the plan

Where my significance and joy no longer needed to be defined by a man

But it came at a cost I was never told

While my pen had already been sold

A seemingly unbreakable shell began to form around my heart

And regaining my control is where my new story would start

This story wasn’t beautiful nor divine to say the least

Days passing without consuming food is how I found my peace
But nobody knew
Pretending I hadn’t obtained a mental illness is something most others would prefer to do
But I couldn’t pretend the words “you have fat legs” didn’t cut deeper than any razor blade I brought to my skin ever did
Or how as my fingers stroked the back of my throat it tasted as sweet as candy does to a kid
Having friends who took my lunch because they knew I’d let it go
Screaming through strangled vocal cords just praying somehow they would know
Losing vision became a habit
As I learned what passing out feels like so beforehand I could sit
Some scars cannot be found at the surface of our beings
As we look into the mirror and lies forming our identity is we continue seeing

I took control to mask the pain

But my scars would still remain

But please, don’t ever feel bad for me

Because I chose shackles when I could have been set free

I rested in my bitterness because oh how it managed to taste sweet

As I rearranged my pieces yet somehow never felt complete

Growing tired of the evidence of ink-stained paper, I broke my pen

But luckily I am the child of a healer that knows how to mend

So I burned the book I wrote with the pen I took, and I left it all to Him

On my heart I still see the story I let define me, but now His story will begin

But I am done talking about myself, so let’s talk about YOUR story

When you finally made the decision to give Him all of the glory

Or perhaps a bit before that, the crumpled up pages you pray you will one day forget

Drenched in hurt, shame and regret

But those pages are YOU

And death lost its sting the moment you became new

There is beauty in your pages

So stop locking them away in cages

You are given grace by the one who placed the stars in the sky, and if that is not extraordinary I don’t know what would be

Let’s begin to believe that embracing brokenness is possible between you and me

Because it is okay to feel worthy, to feel sufficient

Always failing and obtaining scars that may never heal, but that is why He was sent
Christianity doesn’t mean that perfection was obtained and breaking is something you no longer do
The reason he is still so beautifully present is because He knew that in your life He wasn’t through
Your pages are screaming to be read
Even the words you’ve always left unsaid

So let’s begin now with that transparency so that all will ultimately see

That there is not a single reason for you to hide your story