The past I'm afraid You might see

I am the kind of person
who overthinks
everything,
who has to have
an answer,
a reason,
for everything.

So I was painfully aware
of the fact
that there was absolutely
absolutely
no reason
for God
to love me.

I am
unfaithful
unworthy
unloveable.

But recently
I was trying
to find
something real
in all the
phoniness
of religion.

And I decided
that if
I could be good enough
maybe this God
could love me.
Now.

But He could never love my past.

I read
Frank Peretti
and C. S. Lewis.

I turn my
Toby Mac
and Tenth Avenue North
up loud.

I write
song lyrics
and quotes
and verses
and
"bloodwatermission"
on my arm
in red
and purple
and green.

And maybe
God
can love
this
me.

But
He couldn't love
the old me,
the old books,
old music,
the things
I used
to write
on my arms.

And so
I lock
that part
away.
Surely
God is satisfied
with just
this part
of me.