Who did Jesus die for anyway?

Today marks six years since I woke up in that field south of town with dried streaks of blood running down the insides of the lengths of my legs.

I remember finding my torn Hello Kitty panties a few feet away, as I crawled on all fours towards the abandoned building that I knew hosted the event I had to work at the previous night.

My legs hurt and my arms were bruised with marks that looked like the imprints of fingers. In that moment my brain was a thoughtless mass of dense ignorance to what had happened to me.

Today marks six years since I've felt safe and loved by God.

I now know that He did little to protect me against the desires of the demons that mutilated my body. The body that was drugged and lifelessly dragged into the shadows of a rough and overgrown field. I remember robotically plucking out blades of dried grass from my matted hair whilst wondering when I had committed a sin so devastatingly unforgivable that God deserted me. Would my repentance be so trivial, that I don't qualify for the mercy bestowed upon us by the sacrifice of Christ?

Today marks six years since I've abandoned my self-esteem and concluded that I am nothing more than just a product of all the damage I've endured.

How does one measure the volume of an empty container? How does one resuscitate a partially decomposed vessel of a soul that has departed a long time ago?

Today marks six years since I've felt.