Jesus Wept

My heart breaks over things that have nothing to do with me. And though my brain tells me not to worry, I do. And though my brain tells me not to blame myself, I do. 

And in these human moments, all I need is a touch, a kiss, a hug, to pull me out of it. But for God's sake, don't make me be the one to touch you, to kiss you, to hug you. Touch me. Kiss me. Hug me. Please, reach me. 

I'm so broken, so empathetic. I carry the crosses that are mine, but I carry his and yours and hers too. I carry these crosses on the inside, so your burdens don't have to worry you. They're for no one to see and for me to hold because when I carry them alone I can prove to myself that I am strong. 

But now and again my body fails me and my knees buckle beneath me and my arms become weary. I drop my crosses and yours and his and hers too and they scatter around for you to see and I panic so I laugh and then cry and then become so numb that I want to hide from myself.  

And I can't explain this except that I want to weep and weep and weep and I figure that's okay because grandma says "Jesus wept" too. And so I do. But you don't understand that I need you to just touch me and kiss me and hug me. I lost my strength and I don't understand why anymore than you do. 

All I know is that sometimes my heart breaks over things that have nothing to do with me. I try to hold these crosses but they seep out of the cracks and onto your lap and you stare at them like you've never seen a mess so fucking bad. 

I know it's overwhelming to see so many emotions at once but I can't really help it after I choose to take the crosses on. And yes it seeps out and makes a huge mess, and no I don't know how to fix any of it. And no, it won't be fixed overnight. 

But dammit if you just touch me, kiss me, and hug me, I might be alright. 

Honestly,

I'm homesick for the night the meteors showered me in kisses and the stars were pinholes to heaven. You held me against your chest and I memorized the sound of your beating heart. The summer breeze kept my toes warm and you stayed up with me until the sun's early morning rays came and lit my face with its first 'hello.' You left your taste on my lips and your scent imprinted in my mind. I already knew I loved you. But there was a moment in between our sleepy sentences when I realized you were him.

Yours until the pigs fly, 

Alessondra Marie

Damn you

Today is one of those days where I'm going to be late to everything. I can just tell. My feathers are ruffled. 

Each time she said it my brain would revert back to my childhood and I'd think of Mojo JoJo. I think that was his name. He was a monkey. He was evil. 

It's a "I wanna crawl into my coffe cup and run away to the mountains" kinda day. Everyone is tugging at me for commitments and answers. 

I just want to go fishing damnit. 

You kissed me about a hundred times more than I expected you to kiss me ever again. But every kiss made my boots heavier. Knowing I wanted it. Knowing it was wrong. Knowing it meant something but knowing that something meant nothing. Wondering how I'm going to stop. 

There was a life to be built. But the fear of your absence will always be looming over my head. 

And that's why I just want to go fishing. Damnit. 

Yours until the pigs fly, 

Alessondra Marie 

Matthew 7:6

I looked at you and I was falling...

Falling...

Falling...

"Someone has to be the first. There's nothing shameful about being that someone."

There's no shame until your heart sits in your stomach and you realized you gave a pearl to swine. 

I saw you and you were falling...

Falling...

Falling...

Gone. 

Yours until the pigs fly, 

Alessondra Marie 

Apples and insomnia

When I was little I couldn't eat an apple without my fingers and mouth getting sticky. I would also get this overwhelming sense of nausea shortly after finishing the sticky apple. Although time has made me vastly more aware, nature will not relent and my fingers still remain sticky.

Insomnia tells me of my childhood; it explains what I didn't understand and reminds me of what I've forgotten. It colors in the grey details. 

It makes me sad. And angry. And anxious. I wonder what I've missed and who I could have been if I only I was then who I am now. This memory of apples taunts my heart. 

The anxiety kisses my lips and holds me close. I worry for every goddamn man in my life. They're all going to be killed. If not literally, figuratively. Their core will change and their heart will beat to a new rhythm.

But I'm sticky.

My fingers, my mouth. 

And the taste of nausea is teasing me. 

I hate apples. 

Yours until the pigs fly, 

Alessondra Marie

Some Nights

I'm breathing in your booze.

"He's too good for me. He deserves better. But he's all I want and I'm selfish so I keep him and call him mine."

I'm coughing out your truths.

"There are so many reasons you deserve someone like him. You're a good person."

I'm drinking to my lies.

"I'm not a good person. I have a good imagination. You're all a creation of my own device. You think I'm a good person because that's what I want you to think."

I'm holding onto the words you say.

"Your only only problem, and our only bridge, is your battle with self-loathing. You're not a bad person, you just think you are."

I'm kissing my desires.

"He's what I think of in the morning, what I long for at night. He's what makes me excited to wake up tomorrow."

I'm deciphering this foreign feeling.

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie

I was Thirteen and it was Real.

They spoke as if I wasn't in the classroom laboratory with them. I felt my cheeks flush pink with anger and embarrassment. My fingers started to become clumsy as my eyes swelled with tears. I kept my head down so they wouldn't see. Their words were like hot irons, prodding exactly where it would hurt the most. It made me sick. I stood up, with a goal in mind. I turned to both of them and parted my lips to say something. The words escaped me. I stood there with my mouth gaping open, forgetting how to speak. I turned on my heal, walked past my teacher and grabbed my black and white backpack as I uttered under my breath, "I'm going to the bathroom." 

I couldn't even begin to imagine what they whispered as I ran out of the class. I had it coming to me. It was my fault. It was always my fault. I pushed open the bathroom door as I yanked out my phone to text the best friend I had never met. 
"My friends hate me. I hate me." 

I stood in front of the sink, bracing myself as if I could fall over at any minute. The droplets of mascara stained the porcelain white sink. I hated myself for crying. I looked up into the distorted reflection that sat above the sink. How could they call that a mirror? I could hardly see my reflection. Frustration with the school swelled up in my chest as a kid walked into the bathroom. I gave them a heavy blink and walked into one of the stalls. I slammed it shut and threw my backpack to the floor. 

I stood in the stall with my back to the door for five minutes after the kid left. I gritted my teeth together and screamed inside my head. I clenched my eyes shut and slowly sank to the dirty bathroom tile. I shook my head with disgust. Disgust with myself. Disgust with her and him. My hand balled into a fist as I pounded on the tile. 
"Why does no one care?" I called out to anyone that was listening. 

I tore open my backpack and found the stupid pouch my mom gave me for my girl stuff. I dug through about a dozen tampons before I found my only loyal friend. 

My phone buzzed.
"I don't hate you. I liek you. Things will be okay." 

Too little.
Too late.

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie

You're on my brain.

I cannot tell you why I connect every experience with a collection of words. I just know that I try to make something beautiful out of even the most horrible things.

It's a peculiar thing, how a cluster of lines and predetermined sounds can create something that holds the power of either life or death.

They can create wars. They can end wars.
They can make peace. They can end peace.
They can express love. They can express hate.
They can end friendships. They can create friendships.

The possibilities are endless.

Would you just trust me?

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie

1 John 4:8

When I turn 18 I'm getting a tattoo. Not because I'll be an adult making a decision without parental consent for the first time in my existence, but because my 18th birthday is on a Monday and nothing good happens on Monday's. Especially not on that Monday. It'll be the Monday after Easter Sunday. At least it will be for all you white folk. Greek Easter is nearly a month later. But hardly anyone celebrates Greek Easter unless they're Greek or are very close with someone that's Greek. Which is unfortunate for me since I don't know too many Greeks. Since nearly everyone in my life is white, and not Greek, my birthday will be masked by the death of Jesus. So I'm getting a tattoo. 

It sounds blasphemous when I put it that way. The truth is that I've wanted this tattoo since I was 14. And like most things in my life it doesn't appear to resemble much of anything scripturally. But if you ask me about it I'll have something to say. 

It bothers me when things are redundant. Like "hahah lol" or using two of the same words in one sentence. Sometimes it annoys me when people use two of the same words in the same paragraph. Unless they're anything like me and or the Old Testament of the Bible and use the same word over and over and over to make a statement. I'm hypocritical and I'm okay with that. There's a time for all things. There's a time to be simple and there's a time to be verbose. 

Knowledge is to know a tomato is a fruit. Wisdom is to know not to put a tomato in a fruit salad. 

I want to love hard and get married and have a house with a pond and have babies and raise little people into big people. I want to show someone that I know how to give my heart away. I want someone willing to receive it. I want someone to encourage me spiritually, be there for me emotionally and give me a good foot massage every now and again. I want to live in Montana or North Carolina or somewhere with a lot of open space and no one to be in my business. I want a house painted blue with white shutters and a deck that goes all the way around it. I want to be able to swim in my pond in the summer and ice skate in the winter. I want to have something be mine. 

I'm afraid of things changing. I'm afraid of things changing between Him and I, between him and I. I feel stuck and crazy like there's no where to go but down from here. I want Him, and I want him. I know He wants me, but I just want him to want me. 

It's time to take in that long overdue breath. Just breathe in and out. There's nothing to prove and no one to prove anything to. 

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie 

My heart feels so empty. But my soul is alive.

I opened my white-wicker toy box. The hinges creaked from neglect. I pulled out the decorative pillows to reveal my oldest friends. Memories of rabbits and pigs and monkeys and dolls flodded my mind. I pushed them all away in a search for the one I needed. Once I saw her, I wrapped my fingers around her arm and pulled her out of the box. It had been a long time since I last needed her.

I sat on the floor with my knees facing up, holding on to my childhood bear. I heard footsteps on the other side of my shut door.
"Ali are you okay?"
I'm never okay.
"Yes mom, I'm fine."

I shut my eyes and despised the need that was inside my chest. I could just imagine what I looked like. My eyelashes clumped together because of the wet mascara. My short sausage legs appearing larger than normal because of the pastel rose printed pants I was wearing. A young adult clinging to a childhood notion of companionship.

I shook my head as I reopened my eyes. I reached for the pillows I tore out of place and returned them to their home.

I crawled onto my bed still holding onto my bear. All I wanted was your tender and strong hand to stroke my back and ask what I was thinking of. I wanted you to brush my hair away from my face. I wanted you to kiss my head and tell me I'd be okay. I wanted your hands to be on me, comforting me, instead of mine trying to comfort a lifeless teddy bear. 

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie

Baby Soap

My toes were pruned from being in the water for too long. The bubles had become nothing more than whisps of white over the water, licking the the exposed parts of my body. They covered none of my imperfections, just slightly mask them.

Taking a deep breath and plugging my nose, I sunk my head below the water line. I did some of my best thinking underwater. I opened my eyes. It was like trying to see through saran wrap. My vision was blurred, but I could feel my hair branch out and float in the water. I looked up and counted the bubbles remaining on the surface. I think there were four.

Ideas about life and death penetrated my mind. Questions about why nothing is ever perfect. Wondering when things would get better the way you always told me they would. I was able to appreciate the promise you made me, but I was jealous of your content.

I lowered my elbows to the bottom of the tub and brought my head above the water. I held still for a moment and appreciated the solitude I found from the water and my Johnson's bedtime baby bath soap. It smelt like lavender. I decided to make lavender my favorite smell.

I sat up so my upper half was vulnerable to the cold air. I left the damn window open again. I stretched over to grab my razor and shaving cream. I sprayed the pink foam onto my leg and started doing my thing. Baths remind me of you. They remind me of the friendship we had. It was the closest one I had since L left. You were just like her. Your brown curly hair and freckles that kissed your nose. Your oversized brown eyes. Your fears and your hopes. Your sentiment. The way your promises began to sound like forever, and slowly dwindled to an empty, "we'll see."

That's when I cut my leg. The thought of deceived friendships always made my hands unsteady. I ran my palms over my smooth skin to make sure I didn't miss a spot. When I finished I slid my leg back into the warm water. I watched the blood dissolve into a cloud of red until it slowly vanish. I moved onto the next leg.

I ran the razor up my leg as I thought about the way you kissed me. How it was soft and polite. How you tucked your hand behind my neck. How you stopped and made me watch the movie I so adamantly chose. I wished I had done today different. I wished I hadn't let the circumstances at home affect my demeanor throughout the day. The pms got to me as regret swelled in my eyes. Stupid. So Stupid.

I stroked my leg once again to make sure I didn't miss a spot. I put down the razor and lowered my body below the warm water line. I rolled onto my stomach and rested my head against the cold porcelain tub. I inhaled a deep lavender scented breath, and exhaled all my rueful thoughts.

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie

I Make Everyone Proud But You

I can't sleep. Your repentant words echo throughout my head. 
"I've created something selfish and spoiled, something that I now regret." 

I'll be getting ready for a long day come the early morning rays of sunshine. I'll turn on my Christmas lights, open my blinds, feed my cat, make my bed, brush my teeth, pull my hair into a bun, get into my freezing cold car and leave for school. As I do my morning tasks, your words will haunt me. They will chase after my brain and remind me of everything I'm not. The problem is that you won't remember. You never remember.  Many hours after I leave, you will wake up from your sleep. You'll roll out of bed, take out your night guard, go pee and turn on the coffee. You'll mosey your way back to your bedroom and lay on your mattress. Maybe you'll think about our fight from tonight. Maybe it'll cross your mind that there was no end result. You taught me to never go to bed angry or upset with another living being. But here I am, laying in bed, waiting on you as you're probably waiting on me. 

I'm sorry for yelling. I'm sorry for being disrespectful. I'm sorry for being lazy. I'm sorry for being selfish. I'm sorry for disappointing you. I'm sorry for not being what you expected. I'm sorry for not being what you wanted. I'm sorry for becoming something you regret. I'm sorry for not being enough. 
It's never enough. 

"It's okay that you are the way you are though, it's my fault."

You can blame yourself for me turning out this way. That's fine. Blame yourself. Beat yourself up for the terrible human I've become. The bottom line isn't whose fault it is that I turned out this way, it's the fact that I've become something you're ashamed of. And that isn't anyone's fault but mine. It is me that is disappointing. It is me that is the regret. It is me that is selfish. It is me that is self seeking. It is me. It's me. Despite me being my own person, you seem to believe I've become a fuck-up because of you. If that's what you want to walk in, then by all means. Do it. 

Because I couldn't have possibly turned out to be this way because of my own thoughts, actions, desires, wants and needs. It couldn't possibly have to do with me continually overworking myself because I try to be enough for you and everyone else on this God forsaken planet, but never measure up to what I should. It definitely isn't the fact that I'm a candle that's been burnt from both ends. It is absolutely, 100%, undoubtedly because I want to make your life as miserable as possible. 

Yes. That must be it. 

But you don't have to be disappointed in me, hate me, or regret me. I already do all of that enough for the both of us. So stop wasting your time and realize that these not-so-sober arguments get us no where but deeper into this self hatred I'm already wallowing in. 

Yours until the goddamn pigs fly, 
Alessondra Marie

1 Corinthians 13:4-7

I frequently listen to the shitty recordings of your songs. The guitar is well balanced. But your voice floods only my right ear. Your songs get stuck in my head all the time. N1 still makes my heart flutter. Not in the same way, just an endearing, "I miss this" kind of way. I miss you. I miss the way you understood me. I miss your constructive honesty. The way you'd hold me accountable. The way it would make me furious. The way you'd nearly sing me to sleep on iChat. The way I'd click on the end button because I didn't want you to watch me sleep. The way you begged for me to just be my honest self. I often find myself asking if what we had was real. We were so young, but does that really discredit the sincerity of what we felt? Does it abolish the feelings I couldn't explain? 

But I'm older now. I know it was unreasonable for me to expect you to walk through my bedroom door when I was home alone and afraid of the groans and whispers the house walls made. I know it was unreasonable for me to hope you would surprise me by coming home a day earlier than you told me you were going to. I know it was unreasonable to expect you to say the exact right thing at that exact moment. You taught me that the right thing wasn't always nice. Nor was it usually what I wanted to hear. But you were capable of that heartfelt honesty. 

You came into my life at a pivotal moment. It was an essential time in my adolescence and my walk with Christ. Meeting you swayed the decisions I made regarding school and friends. I was so alone. I was surrounded by people that I knew, but I didn't know any of them. No one was interested in the things I was learning. No one was concerned with the crosses I bore. You were an instrumental piece to my growing pains. 

Now I know that it's okay to wear my heart on my sleeve. I'm allowed to have feelings. And although sometimes they're going to be rejected, it's far more important to let them be known than allow them to be a mystery. You taught me that taking the risk is sometimes the most significant action in a relationship. If I don't, then there won't be a relationship. I've realized that I can't keep everything locked up. Most of the time, it'll be more beneficial for me to tell someone, anyone, than no one at all. 

I loved you as much as a confused fifteen year old girl is capable of loving a seventeen year old young man. Unfortunately for our relationship, I have since surpassed my fifteen year old capabilities. But God has a reason for everything. He gave me you so I could learn how to love someone to my fullest potential. 

Although I am entitled to my fantasies, I'm not allowed to literally expect them from a man, and get upset when it doesn't happen. I no longer have these disillusions of what could be. I realize what is and I'm content with that. I'm easily satisfied. 

And I owe that to you. 

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie

Lessons Learned

This is me learning a lesson. 

Trust no one,
feel nothing, 
do not invest, 
and never be like that. 

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie

Gungor

I play my piano completely exposed. I allow my towel to fall onto the bench while I touch each key softly with my fingertips, just hard enough to formulate a G major. I work the progression from G to A to D until my voice grows tired. Each note touches my naked skin; becomes absorbed into my open pores and resonates throughout my bare body. My hair falls into wet curls partially over my shoulder. I feel the cool droplets descending onto the small of my back.
All this pain,
I wonder if I'll ever find my way.
I wonder if my life could really change at all. 

I press my foot down onto the sustain pedal as I push down on the last chord. The notes carry themselves out as I turn my head to look at my reflection. I see the silhouette of each vertebrae poking through my back. I see the way my 12 ribs say hello. I see my collar bone, I see my tiny wrists. But I also see the fat rolls on the front of my stomach. I see the stretch marks on my thighs and the bare cellulite kissing my piano bench. It's never good enough for me. Is it good enough for you?
You make beautiful things...
You make beautiful things out of the dust. 

Images swarm my head. They're like cartoons, teasing the fears in my brain; wondering what I'm trying to make of myself and asking if this is worth it. Telling me that if I give up, it'll make me a coward. 
All around,
Hope is springing up from this old ground.
Out of chaos life is being found in You.

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie

Cold Association

There's a feeling I associate with winter. The feeling always comes when things are going wonderful, but on the brink of being awful. It's almost more bitter than it is sweet.
"What the hell am I doing?"

It's the way the cold air kisses my exposed cheeks. It's the way my lungs feel when they became icy. It's the way the anxiety of what is to happen bubbles in my chest.
"What the hell am I doing?"

I remember feeling homesick and desperate to find something familiar. I looked up to the steadfast sky, but even that was a stranger. I searched for the bears, the hunter, the princess and queen. But they weren't there. I said out loud, "Even the stars are different here." No one responded to me. No one even glanced my way as my scared, hot breath fogged the air in front of me. My nose started to run as my eyes swelled with tears, "I'm cold. I'm going inside." The cold, my sweet alibi.
"What the hell am I doing?"

You turned up the music as I sat in your car. You told me to drop the blanket and get out. We're going to dance. I don't dance. But I grabbed your free hand as you gently put the other on the small of my back. I rested my head against your chest and heard your heart beating. I gazed past your car, past the Livermore hills, past even the clouds. The stars twinkled bright as I asked them,
"What the hell am I doing?"

I ran out of my house and to my car, holding on to my purse and hood as if my life depended on it. I felt my messy ponytail thump, thump, thump against my neck. The buckets of water pouring from heaven and the broken street lights made it seem impossible to drive half an hour to school. Terrified, I put my hands on the steering wheel and pressed on the gas peddle. Not nearly ready to go I said to myself,
"What the hell am I doing?"

Everything starts with I and ends with me. It's time to grow up, and deny the definite theme echoed throughout my life.
"What the hell am I doing?"

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie

Creep.

Sometimes I just want to yell, "fuck off." 
Just fuck you and fuck off.
I don't really want to say it to anyone specific. I just want to cry it to the wind and let the sound waves impact the first soul it finds. I'm not angry at you. I'm angry with myself. 
All the time.

I don't care if it hurts,

I want to have control,

I want a perfect body,

I want a perfect soul...

I just want him to call me pretty. I want him to see me. I want him to see my dimpled thighs. I want him to see where the sun has kissed my skin and where it has not. I want him to see my split ends and my overgrown roots. I want him to see the stretch-marks, the scars, the blemishes.
Just see my imperfections. Call me pretty in spite of them.
I dare you.

But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doing here?
I don't belong here...

I don't belong here. 

A larger part of me wants to be shunned. I know I deserve it. I deserve to be punished. I torture innocent people. I walk all over their hearts. I am a bully. 

"Who is it you want to be?" 
"I want to be sweet and thoughtful. I want to be courageous and confident. I don't want to fight with people. I want to be easy." 
"Okay, so be that. Problem solved. :)"

But it's so hard to be that when I've been this for the past 17 years.
Angry. Bitter. Mean. Cowardly. Selfish. Ugly. 
Fuck you. 

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie  

Redemption '08

I remember earnestly exposing my scars for the first time. I was merely 13 years old, naive with illusions of sincere love. We sat in a blank room filled with instruments. His music thickened the air; each note enticed me further into our young infatuation.

After each song we would have sober confessions. I openly admitted my most troubling vice. He asked if he could see the flesh proof of my self hatred. Without hesitation I rolled up my sleeve and stretched my arm out toward his open hands. My palm faced the ceiling as my cheeks grew rosy with shame.

He removed one hand from my arm and touched my cheek, forcing me to gaze at those metallic grey eyes. Without breaking eye contact he put two fingers onto the two inch scab. His eyes swelled with tears as he said, "It breaks my heart that you feel such intense pain that you're driven to hurt yourself like this."

He had such a deep sense of compassion towards me and it dwelled in him for no reason other than the Holy Spirit inside his heart.

He was the vessel God used to hold my arm steady as He ran two fingers across my scars, calling me redeemed.

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie

A Siren's Cry

I'm not sure anyone understands what it feels like to look into the mirror and literally hate the persistently shallow grimace I refer to as my face. I hate my brassy hair that never lays correctly. I hate my scarlet blemishes that stain my forehead. I hate my thick, untamable eyebrows. I hate my shit colored eyes. I hate my random freckles. I hate my hooked shaped nose. I hate my chapped lips. I hate my uneven collar bone. I hate my plump arms. I hate my ever-growing waistline. I hate my dimpled thighs. I hate my round calfs. I hate my stubby toes. I hate that I have to shave every inch of my body just to stay presentable to the general public. I hate that number on the scale. 
I hate my unrelenting hatred for myself. 


Moreover, I'm not sure anyone understands what it's like to keep this dissatisfaction to myself. I constantly find myself desperate to explain this deep revulsion to anyone that is willing to listen. All the while I am terrified of being judged accordingly. The thought of being that girl horrifies me to no end. And so I mention my vices but quickly change my mind. And the subject. 


I'm not sure I know how to look into the mirror in an estimable fashion. There is nothing I want more than to love myself the way I've felt you love me. But it's an incessant battle that will never go away. It's tenacious; nearly stronger than my will. It catches me by surprise and is triggered by nothing more than a glance at my reflection. 


When I was ten I was granted permission to join a club. It was called Merely Mortal, and I was only permitted to become a member if I knew what the words meant. Merely meaning only, simply, or just so. Mortal meaning human; often compared to and falling short to a divine being. Merely Mortal: only, simply and just human. 


As debilitating as my opinion of myself can be, I'm only human. I suppose the beauty of my mortality is that I'm sanctioned to hate myself and the things that I do, but still learn from it. Essentially, it doesn't matter in what regard I hold myself. There's always someone or something out there that looks to me in a higher esteem. I guess that's what keeps a person going, right?


Yours until the pigs fly, 
Alessondra Marie

Genesis 1:27

I imagine God standing in a kitchen, looking silly in an apron. While He gracefully removed all the proper utensils from the cabinets, He hummed a song of love. He took each and every ingredient, measured it to perfection, and added it into the mixing bowl with great care. He spooned the batter into the pan gently and was careful not to spill. He placed it in the oven, and patiently waited for the timer to ding so He could remove His creation and gaze at it with eyes of wonder. 

“You are beautiful.” 

His piece is an acquired taste. One can hardly grow accustomed to it’s crass behavior. It strives for perfection, but always falls short. It wants to be brave and courageous. It seeks approval. It’s motives are unknown to not just it’s peers, but also to itself. It question’s the ingredients God used, and talks to Him with doubts and uncertainties about it’s character. 

God created me. But the magic about it all is that only He knows why He used pecans instead of walnuts. 

Yours until the pigs fly, 

Alessondra Marie