An Open Letter To Anyone Who’s Ever Looked in a Mirror (or, Cages)

Rubber grates on wood, removing the blemishes left by empty words in grayscale. Renovate these empty tombs we’ve built  in our transgression, rewrite the words of obsession that escaped our lips, sang in unholy dissonance, resistance from the truth that we won’t get this (without a struggle, anyway.)




Hues, shades of grey without the high class/low class publication, obscuring vision and igniting our useless fascination with our humiliation. As the dim glow of the screen sucks you into its grasp and sends you writing like the bodies you watched so selfishly or as the green haze pacifies and emptiness that will only return in full force, reinforce, FULL SPEED AHEAD to the days when you already feel dead, haunted by memories of the accusation, detonation of a situation which you had no control over. Sacrificing purity because of memories of it stolen, claiming necessity because of “injuries.” Gone to the bottle too quickly, feigning the feeling of being sickly so you can sacrifice the gifts you’ve been given. Or what about the sadness that manifests as scars all over your wrist?  Summon an insolent wish, drink away the pain only to wake up feeling the full brunt of the helpless depravity you’re grasping for a way out of. Squandering your talents and punishing reality with your pipe dream, (and yes we can hear you scream) rewriting promises made in favor of a more self indulgent script while the choirs of old scream for you to get a grip. Those voices that never made sense, and did you expect them to?

Apathy is a crypt. 

But true carelessness is a myth.

If your words mean nothing, please don’t take the time to say them. If your memories are too painful, know its better not to fade them with so much smoke or (God forbid) any more coke. Put down the bottle, rip the cord out of the monitor and understand that you are better than all the lies that have been told to you, all the betrayal that’s been sold to you. If rage fills your bones, just understand that it won’t be long and those memories will be obscured by better ones. After all, if you claim to be sons and daughters of the risen king, there’s more than enough of a reason to sing, and I know these words sting but trust me. There is a King whose voice sends ripples through the stars! There is healing in his scars.

They say you smoke, click, drink, shake with anger and fear, to become the full expression of what humanity has to offer. Well, I’ve seen what humanity offers and I’m afraid to say that it just feeds you to a coffer, don’t listen to the scoffers but grasp hold of the life that glides in front of your eyes. If I’m bathed in bloodshed, reset, recoup and understand that the blood shed once on that battleground hill was the sacrifice to end it all.

Ugly dissonance, dancing the dance of death before an Audience of One. You’ve got the match, but I’ve got the trigger and the gun. Its you against me, us against them, grasping, pleading, begging for an end to this uselss, reckless sin. Denial is a curse, emptiness a consequence. Repent.

Dear God, erase everything we’ve done.

Dear God, erase everything I’ve done.

King Jesus, replace this same old song with a melody that shrieks redemption from the swirling skies of a sinner who’s finally learned his place before the feet of a holy God, a sinner who finally hears the voice of his King, saying “Good and faithful servant, come home.”

Jesus, yo quiero que este mundo te conosca.


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