she settled into the new place. again.

the neighborhood was sketchy.

drug dealers lived down the street.

she adapted. she was skilled in adapting.

conviction pricked at his soul for choices he’d made, things he blamed her for.

self-focus produces stinky garbage.

 

when he visited, he came wanting. he expected things.

food. money. sex.

wrong expectations are heavy yokes.

disappointment in wrong expectations is destructive.

he did not visit just to see her. he didn’t know how, and he had little to give.

he flipped words around to convince himself he was doing right.

somehow the blame frequently landed in her lap.

he told her she was selfish.

he spoke destructive words often.

sharp word knives pierced her heart.

she hardly remembered a time when he spoke kind words to her.

she nearly forgot who she was, how wonderful she was and to whom she belonged.

papa god reminded her.

she was smart. beautiful. creative. amazing. kind. generous. loving. gracious.

one friend referred to her as the graceful, glorious one. she liked that a lot.

his pain was so deep, his soul so broken, only hurtful words came out.

she tried to take a break from him. he became more anxious and fearful.

she saw in part what the little boy inside had experienced, how the man became so tormented years later.

she loved him well. he knew this.

sometimes he asked her why she put up with his shit.

she told him she saw more in him.

she told him she loved him. she showed him. often. even in the pain and destruction.

sometimes he would say he was no good for her.

she told him he could change that. jesus could heal him, make him whole.

he had passion. he was smart. he was funny.

she told him he was brilliant.

and on it went.

until it could not go on anymore.

(copyright 2016 jane doe)