You colored me in soft blues
and greens,
Hard purples and reds.
Little black specks, to accentuate
my most precious places.
You blurred the colors together. .
.
so it is hard for me to see...
who it is,
I am,
anymore. . .
The edges of my body,
the outline for your work.
The insides forgotten
as you busied yourself coloring. .
.
If only it were beautiful.
If only you had just torn out this
page.
But He—
He saw the smudges and the
bleeding edges,
traced every bruise like a sacred
map.
He didn’t tear the page—
He turned it.
Where you left chaos,
He brought color.
Where you broke me,
He began to rebuild.
With golden light,
He lifted the shadows,
stitched the torn canvas
with threads of purpose and flame.
Ashes gathered in His palms,
and from them,
He painted wildflowers.
He made beauty bloom
in places I thought were only
wreckage.
Now—
these lines,
these wounds,
they speak.
They speak of survival,
of a hand that never let go,
of a love not built on pain
but on promise.
You called it the end,
but He calls it the beginning.
And I—
I will rise,
a masterpiece still in the making,
formed by fire,
carried by grace,
and alive with purpose.