I used to believe in innocence. When I was a little girl and then I turned six and I learned the world was a much darker place than I had envisioned on the kindergarten playground riding my tricycle round and round.

That should have been the beginning of my distrust of men but I hid it away in the recess of my mind so that I could go play at recess outside without the memories of what he did to me. I convinced myself his intentions were a fantasy and he never meant any harm to my dignity.

Well eighteen years later I was sure I had forgotten the damage my sense of belonging was built on. I fell for someone.

Only a few weeks passed before his hand went down my pants and I didn’t stop him. Believing that this was what I was destined, to be a prop in his story of satisfaction. I argued it was fine because some day I’d be his bride never realizing that when he looked at me the only word he thought was “mine”. Not “my love”, not “the answer to my prayers” but simply an object that was there. For his benefit. While my heart suffered neglect my soul wrestles with discontent. And I don’t want you to see me cry because if you have the audacity to ask me why I will tell you. And then you’ll stop. Because there is a conscience within you. But if you respect my boundaries and refuse to touch me then I will feel undesirable. Funny how that which once scarred me I now cling to.

You see I took this identity the world gave me and named myself worthless. And I decided that my purity was something that could be purchased with the right word or slightest of smiles.

To have and to hold take on new meaning when the holding is clutching and the having is property and I no longer know what it means to be me.

Who is she? This once little girl who dreamt in naivety that one day her prince would sweep her off her feet. Well all the prince’s horses and all the prince’s men couldn’t put this broken little girl back together again. Not when her life had been wrecked by the wages of sin.

And there it is. That three letter word so often mistook for “men”. See men are not the problem. It’s sin. It weaves its way in and out of the lives of male and female alike. Convincing us we are no greater than our biggest lie.

You see that tormented little girl didn’t need a prince. She needed a King. So she ran as fast as she could and began endlessly searching for the One who could end her suffering. And she found him. Hanging. Lifeless on a tree.

How was it that this great warrior who was supposed to contend for her had been defeated before she ever even found him. Her sorrow poured out as she bathed the wounds upon him.

With no where else to go she turned into the storm and prepared to step into the tempest when suddenly behind her she heard,

“My child, I loved you at your darkest”

He had given his life as a wage for the debt to be paid so the world could be free. And then he came back for me.

This poem. These words tumbling forth. They’re not just about the girl I was when I didn’t know my worth. They’re for the men who did me wrong. The ones who believed the devils sly song of who they were as well. He convinced them to buy all the masks he could sell. To cover up their calling of protectors and rebrand them as takers until every bit of honorable man was buried underground. Well I’ve been digging a long time and there is an honesty to be found.

I cried out for so long for those men to truly see me all while ignoring their desperate attempts to be seen. To be told they could be better. Encouraged to live with honor. I look into my future and I decide to be “her”. The one that forgives. The one that pulls away the facades these boys have been given. I take a deep breath. I reach for the hand of my living King and He names me clean. Then He turns to my abusers and we name them free.