Back Again...

Written By: Deanna Marie Battista

Throughout the countless blessings that have surrounded my every fallen tear and deepened breath. It’s become another iridescent storm of what I have both survived and found restored. This heart of mine that keeps catching on reality. Tripping over my heart’s dreams and pen. Or maybe it’s the wonder and whimsy of my faith that keeps me in this never ending free fall of praying to numb the ache. This way of words that I can’t seem to escape. The band-aid to my heart, words to paper. The loneliness resounds every part of my bareness. This unloved fairytale girl’s wounded soul. I was made to create this window of heaven sent and built to always love glow. The dimensions my scribbles and clicky keyboard can unite and reflect when my smile fades, much like my hope to hope. Another way to carry this weariness trap door I have found my blueness lost in, forever stuck. Being lost to the title of princess once more. The enemy's laughter only helps deepen the score. What a bitterness that pretends to be sweet. The heaviness that feels so detached from what being healed is supposed to last and help me upkeep. Don’t get me wrong, blessings are all around. The intimacy of time that strikes my heart and mind in a quadrupole decreed threat of a never princess only fairy packaged gift. Cut too close, the idea of losing the wound of loving never after. Pain teaches us something that I think joy never could. Somewhere in time, the carousel of emotions that carries out the death of a writer girl’s imagination. Quite the paper cut indeed. The parts of my diamond reflective waiting to be. 

                          Seen. Held. Chosen. 

Yet this catholic girl’s invisible string, ties ribbons of light from where the darkness no longer calls out my name. Only in the echoes of what God makes illuminate. No longer in jeopardy of losing my soul. Just being wounded by the same love I was asked to save and offer, scattered in the pieces of my wholeness I fear I am losing by not being found yet. A sadness washes over the words writing to the sound of the truth being held down. 

Even the flowers around the tombstone of moonlight, where she has grown more tired and less old. It’s something that I’ve learned to do overtime, through the embered fire that catches in my eyes. I wonder if anyone can recognize the seconds and minutes that sing aloud just beyond each floorboard I walk. It’s a new dance I’m learning the steps to. I will find my way to you, just like angels on the moon. The knitted back together reprieve, the way my tattoo will anchor both you and me. Trying to not let this pain define my ability to break free. Countless prayers, never waisted. Trying to convenience myself of anything besides the loop I’m stuck in. I’m exactly where I am meant to be. Trying to listen to what I’ve been told, letting go of bruises I painted myself with to warm from the cold. Holding onto pieces of peace. Praying to shake you away from my mind, finally. 

Yearning has become another interwoven leap of not enough lessons learned with the same outcome. But that’s just the cynicism talking. Something that has been foreign to me for so many years. I’ll write it within the skyline of my eyes. They hold what my lips can’t say. They write on in ways my pen could never convey. I’m here. I’m healing. I’m refining the ways I will uphold heaven. Blinded by the brighter side. The other half of all of me that will be impossible to let go, the beautiful angel carved within the stone of everything God had ever promised me sin would never crush and make un-whole. 

The butterfly wings of being invisible and unseen yet again. The sidelines of love, the golden hue that promises and whispers from up above. Lost in love. Tired and exhausted.

To be this open hearted. It’s not for the faint of love stories that will only ever be written. The parts and tethering of seams of me, undone and unraveled. Cut too close, this knife wound of fading through the days of not decay, but being better; the best version of me for heaven’s sake.

I always imagined love as a force that could withstand anything else. But some fears are trapped in disguise. Our emotions alluding and whispering out to time. Some fear is truly just grief. An appreciation for solitude. Not for the sake of being able to stand on your own two feet. But within the course of years adding to more trauma. The appreciation was something the trauma forced me to admire. The loneliness I despise. But I think if not by God’s side, it’s something I’d eventually learn to miss too. Like how the open wound your name, I’ve never uttered passionately, in the daze of subconscious prayers still unanswered, ricochets its bloom. The name I may just never know. All the while my heart recoils and my pen isn’t able to flinch. 

Maybe it’s not the ghost of any man I will settle to love after all. The idea of a prince charming close, but forever afar. The idea of love coming to bang on the clock just because it’s not enough to further reopen my scars. Maybe it’s me. In this everafter little girl dream. Maybe I’m the ghost…being a writer God has called and needed me to be. 

Yours Truly, 

             Deanna Marie 

                                 Always Writing with Light