uncertain symbols.

for the directors of music and discarded letters

a voice calls out from the trees, from the other side of those grey clouds: he needed a vessel for sorrow.

the choice of believing was made nearly a decade ago. when i wasn’t wise enough to dictate between sacrifices, offerings, and fate. it’s punishable, wouldn’t you say?

my god isn’t immortal, but he won’t be with me in death. i’ll wound my memory for him, if he ever asks. i won’t apologize for that.

i try rearrange and cut tokens from our unaligned childhoods, in hopes of soothing our futures. but i never got it right. the doctors and the medication never seem to mold me into someone new.

i don’t believe. i don’t, but i must. i try. so instead, i commit psalm thirteen to memory:

“how long, LORD? will you (resent) me forever? / how long will you hide your face from me? / how long must i wrestle with my thoughts and day after day have sorrow in my heart? / how long will (you) triumph over me?”