Sins of the Daughter

It seems easier somehow to write about darkness and gloom than sunshine and light. I spent days trying to make something from a poem I sketched about a glorious experience in a beautiful place, and I could only seem to capture the palest glimpse of the moment. Petty outbursts however seem easier to grasp… Probably because they happen more often… Chagrin indeed!

Some stains, it seems,
cannot be removed
completely;
hidden deep
in twisted folds
and brain crevasses
to suddenly appear
on chagrins blazing cheek

“My tongue slipped-“
“I did not mean-“
Tripping on the lie:
“I’m not like that.”
“That is not me.”

Deep within
I know, these stains
were made by me,
spilling bile
all down the front
of my best dress,
for everyone to see

And though I’ve scrubbed
and scoured and rinsed
with holy water,
the Light persists
in showing up
the grime of your
poor grubby daughter

Some stains it seems
can’t be removed
by the one who made them,
only the Unmade One
can do the thing
of scraping clean
this conscious skin,
made safe,
to keep my soul within