I remember
with crystal clarity
the moment I knew
not broken just
Queer

years of feeling 
not enough
unknown, afraid
no matter how hard I tried
still somehow
not right, not who I should be

I'd found my way out
out of the world inside the closet
I didn't know I was living in

I know now I'm not 
inherently broken
but years of broken
sinful humanity
years of so broken 
Jesus had to die 
to make me worthy of love
so broken ...

it leaves scars 

scars I ignore
or try to forget
or pretend don't exist
until ...

someone speaks truth
about the brokenness of
theology that hates and fears

something shifts 
just a tiny bit
but enough I can feel  
enough I can breathe more fully

---------------------

With gratitude to the person who told me: “The broken ones are those who fear so much they hate. … I hope you continue to heal from being treated like you were broken by people who are broken; and finding peace and joy in being all that you are.”

Most of the time I know what the title is for something I’ve written, but not for this one. Maybe it has no name because I didn’t plan to write, but I also couldn’t ignore the need to put pen to paper and capture what felt like an almost imperceptible shift that mattered in ways I’m not sure I have words yet to express.