I will sing again.

Occasionally there's a five fingered skeletal hand that reaches out to me in the same heaviness that comes from the bottom of your stomach. I let him trace my jawline far too often and seduce my senses away from my Lover's gaze.

I'm feeling sorry for myself. But you'll have to allow me to let Him help me pull myself out of it. Its a weird swirly cycle, but you can't yell me out and I can't guilt myself out. It just takes some extra moments most don't consider paying.

A part of me recognizes the lies, even though fighting them is like trying to hang on to buttered rope. I am too much, I am not enough, no matter how hard I try I will never measure up to any guy's expectations: and yet I find myself clawing the air hoping to make myself acceptable to at least one. What have I done? Why am I so repulsive? All I can see in my vision is a thick cloud of mistakes. There is nothing I do right, and I will never be lovely.

But over the angsty thunderstorm hovers a thin line of realism that makes my nose wrinkle. My identity is safely guarded but my other walls are as thin as tissue paper. I know exactly why boys aren't attracted to me and I'm incredibly sick of being lied to. I'm aware of exactly why boys who "aren't ready to date" have a sudden turn around when my smaller friend walks by, and its always the ones who were supposed to be men of integrity.I know why people get creeped out by the slightest flirt, however benign. I know why I'm kept at arm's length, and constantly scolded for liking the wrong people. I'm not stupid and I quickly grow tired of those who've built huts of idealism over their heads in a justification to "reason with me." I'm tired of the well-meaning who watch me fly into these attitudes and, irritated, attempt to correct me without searching their own hearts first, or the hearts of others. And after all of these, I'm sick of being told by every bible study, mentor, self help guide and family member that its my fault that I'm still single, or discontent, or impatient; for one reason or another. I never wanted the perfect man, and trying to be the perfect woman, even subconsciously, is exhausting.

But even as I duck through leaves of blatant wallowing and dunes of uncertainty, I dodge lightning by holding on to moments. Conversations with a beloved friend that remind me this isn't everything. That there is more. That I'm ok.

Me: *in sarcasm* "you're perfect the way you are. you just need to lose a little weight."

Jonathan: "I'm going to need the name of the boy that said that to you. Cause that is not cool."

He helps me pull myself out in unexpected ways.