Creative Work


M. Kelly, 18

You don’t understand, Scale.
That’s not what you’re supposed to say.
I should be less than yesterday.
And by being less, I’ll be worth more.
And your sister, the mirror,
screams so loud I have to hear her.
I want you both gone, so I won’t have to care.
But I don’t dare
because a year from now it’s bound to get worse.
Who will free me from this curse?
God, if you can hear me, let my heart be still.
Open my eyes, and silence all these lies.
I’m tired of feeling withered and dead.
Tell the mirror, the scale, and my head,
they have no right to say
how I should look
or how I should behave.
Lord, you grew this flower.
The scorching wind has made it cower.
God, I need rain.
Take away this pain.


—from devozine (January/February 2014). Copyright © 2013 by The Upper Room®. All rights reserved.
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