I begged God for your pain.
I said Make me your first pick.
I raised my eager hand for the choirs of angels.
I wept Give it to me instead.
I pleaded Him to make me a tabernacle for your hurt.
Take a swing at me. I can handle it.
I might be a trembling beady-eyed little girl with hardly a body left to hold
hardly anything magical inside of her anymore maybe just degraded by life
in more ways than one maybe just blood and gore and twenty flammable
years of breaking down in church pews and shaking her fist at a benevolent
God— too much fire in her soul too much evil in her holy mind— that girl
would kick Satan in the face with the bottoms of her sneakers for you
would make you mad make you proud make you whole again
would do all of it again in a heartbeat in an instance in a fit of rage
if there is this much hell inside of her
she can be the one to keep yours away.
I can handle it. Take a swing at me.