Where are You now?
It's midnight, and in the dark You look different. You are a full moon face full of shadows with dark eyes impossible to read. You are quiet, and your silence scares me. You know how we recovering Pentecostals are. We need a God we can hear.
You walk softer. I don't know if I'd feel better if you thundered into the room, shaking the house, and breaking all kinds of locks and chains. Your footfalls thump in the distance, and it is enough to make me aware that You're not gone away, but You seem unreachable, and reticent to be with me.
Are you mad at me?
Can You see me? Can't You see how hard this is? I'm all out of money, and words, and happy faces. I don't have a damn thing to say here, and I don't know why I'm sitting here in a dark room, head rocked with pain, wondering when the prozac will kick in that the doctor *hopes* will take the headaches away.
Don't you see this is killing me? It's not making me stronger. It's killing me.
And I don't have anyone but You. You know that. So come and help me. I know it's my fault, but I need help and I'll try not to get in this much trouble again. I'll try.
Everything hurts. And I don't think I can hold on anymore.