spectroscopic grace Esthy Hung Night falls for a long time as my world eviscerates. Death ready to attack. Old friends—shame, anger, despair Beckon me in with open arms. Tendrils of black ensnare me; I cannot see God. A nurse patiently sits with me as I cry and shake in the Dreaded Dining Room, a Digestive biscuit before me for Two dark hours. All I know is I cannot have it. Dull grey iron bars stand guard at my window, Reminding me: escape is impossible. The painful panging for home is new for me. God, how can you possibly use this to further your Kingdom? The memories are foggy, there are only feelings— Clouds of grey numbness or overwhelming sadness or sheer terror. “Why is light given to he … who rejoices exceedingly when they find the grave?”1 The mirror tells me I am covered in mud; dirty and tarnished. Friends come to visit and Pray. Lies still crawl in, telling me I am Shameful, that He has cast His face Away from me. Surely, as someone said— If I just prayed more, if I just had more faith But He ate with the weak. Washed the dirt from their Feet. He desires me still. Though our minds are poisoned yellow with self-hatred and self-destruction We yearn to take away each other’s suffering. We hold each other up. Eliza: “Bananagrams?” I peer out from the nest of safe darkness I am curled up in. Although I try to mask the salty droplets gliding down my face— Eliza knows. The voices in my mind are screaming, as they do for her too. I dry my face and slide onto the floor She empties the pieces from the yellow purse Silently we play Bananagrams Violet bruises cover Hazel; my sister in this prison Whose mind has distorted her reality Familiar warm salty droplets make acquaintance with my lips again as I hear her Scream in the next room fighting 1 Job 3:20–22 ESV
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