rejoicing in the hands

if she could have one thing right at that moment, her choice would undoubtedly be a pillow pressed against her open mouth where her piercing scream could flood and be caught in it's cotton weave, rather than her poor throat where the tension had taken to choking her. yes, a pillow; and it would become all-knowing, catching every truth that she wanted no one else to hear; (they don't get the screams, they only get the whispers.) in that scream will fly out the trapped horrors within, the fiends tearing the gentle fabric of her being; (she is a nice girl. everyone knows that.) like a wet towel being wrung out, she will drain herself of every pressed smile, every feeling of doubt, every bruising glance and word, every pent-up monster that had no escape; until that pillow.

Random and kind of dark, I know. This is the kind of writing that is produced on a bad day. But really this could be anyone-- anyone who has ever felt trapped, anyone who has ever felt misunderstood, anyone who has ever just...had a bad day. It means a lot of things, I guess.  This is the epitome of the old me, the girl who struggled to keep everything inside, the girl who always felt alone, who could never fully be myself.  Now, I am not that girl; some days she visits me, and I forget that I'm not her. But mostly, she stays far away and I like it that way; I remember that I am a new person-- literally; a new person in Christ. He has saved me, renewed me. I am never alone, even especially on the bad, scream-into-your-pillow days.