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I admit

and I am not ashamed:


I pray

when I’m desperate,

when the demeaning voices in my head

have built a well so deep and dark

that I cannot remember it is day,

when I’ve pushed my fingers into the hard clay wall,

a hold that tears free in my hand the moment I pull up weight.

The water is muddy now and I can’t drink it.

God is not an insurance policy

that only if I had paid I’d have a rope to climb now.

I do not curse myself for negligence when my cup was full,

when our laughter was its own prayer.

I pray now, in the depths of my despair,

because this is where I feel God:

in the incredible immensity of the universe

pressing me smaller smaller.

I am powerless

even before the voices in my own psyche

that I know are wrong,

not to mention Earth’s desire or the unfolding of the cosmos.

What else is there to cry for

humbled and heavy


than mercy?



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