song of my sorrows

i twist a crown of thorns onto my head

and dress myself in a purple robe.

hail, queen of hearts,

carrying her own cross

and the heavy sorrows of her sisters.

how can you impose such a burden on your body,

they ask.

i respond:

how can you impose this on someone else?

i cannot watch others bleed out for me if i am capable of suffering for the world plus myself.

they remind me that the world did not place me on trial;

i remind them that we all make mistakes.

i am my own judge

for the rest of this solitude,

this duty i cradle between my shoulder blades.

call her therapist,

they say.

this is an emergency,

they whisper with urgency spilling out of their shaking palms.

predictably,

my first fall back to reality

and i suffer casualties as i chant my lost psalm:

i,

an emergency.

terrifying.

i,

an emergency.

satisfying.

my mother weeps in my peripheral view.

i correct my crown and carry on,

picking up her tears, too.

there is nothing else i can do.

do i desire pain?

they watch me,

and when i wheeze

my father advances towards me

and heaves my cross over his bad back.

i beg him to stop his reckless actions,

but he refuses to step down.

he will help me until his brittle bones crack.

it does not take long.

i do not ask my believers

where the people i've healed are at.

i do not ask why there is only one girl

walking beside me,

when i have cured a hundred broken pagans.

she does not mention my humility,

but she tries to wipe the sweat from my face.

instead,

i wipe the dripping mascara from hers.

i fall again

as they ask if i can do this.

how long can you go on like this?

how long will you try?

my future is unknown

and i am tired.

i still need to write my gospel,

but i drag forever

up from worn lungs

and continue to crucify myself.