Failure.

Give voice to grief or pen the heartstrings of hurt. Give me a means, a method, to express fear and shame and apology. Give touch to loneliness in this room, on this couch, in this bed while friends linger one floor below and lay their heads in peace.

Show me the way to preach this sermon of love of unconditional kind with sorrow rampant and wounds reopened. Show me how to heal. I took the bandages off willingly enough to let You heal. It seems a muse for others to touch the festered flesh, narcotic with time, with tears uncaught and unnoticed.

I have nothing left but "I'm sorry". Failure permeates every every patched hole. Fear riddles me in the night hours.

I told you I was human. But you didn't believe me. I told you I would fail you. And still you seem disappointed. But is that you or me, the disappointed one? Did you not believe me, or did I play the fool believing I could fake it so?

I don't understand this wicked heart of mine. It beats and bleeds and causes others to do the same. Jeremiah was right. Deceitful above all things.

So I guess I'll preach this sermon again. Over and over to myself until I understand. No, until I realize I won't.

Remind me of Your love.