Crusted criticism flakes off me like the delicate, fragile layers of a fluffy croissant. My sugar is building snowmen, selling death door to door to the depressed and broken, offering itself a sacrifice. In a cold place, my body will be sleeping. The cliffs carouse beside the sea. I miss my husband while he rubs my back. I am cheerful, living like lightning. Burn bright, then in a flash, gone. Nothing left but a faint, sticky smoke. I do not need criticism. I need the white sacrifice of a discipline I could not understand – like it’s been 36 years and after He saves my life and seals me I still say, “No one loves me,” because unworthiness is in my blanched bones. The sunshine is, to the shadow, fearsome and hard to believe.
Miniature Moon 