i do not want a thick-skinned heart, bristled and leathery
though some would insist that i ‘toughen up’, but i have always been the rebel, waving a white flag
i want my heart to be pudding-soft, soft as butter
soft enough for God to live in, every day throwing open the curtains, easily climbing in and out of the windows
—the holy of holies, the high priest, perhaps a nun
or, a small child running in and out of their favourite playground
there! that’s better!
God is always trying to get me to play
there were puddles and oceans and slow-sleepy rivers, long before someone needed wine to impress their neighbours with
listen, let me brutally honest
i do not want a hard heart, a brick, or a rock
i have thrown many stones before and it took a long, long time to find my way back, having forgotten where i hid the key, and eventually once back inside, not even knowing how to make the darkness light again
—the agony of this, of being locked out of the only rooms where i am alive, where i am able to breathe, and evicted from that sacred place by my own hands
now, i light small fires on the windowsills of my mouth, all day long, just to keep it small and soft, just to hear the sound of footsteps outside, the wildernessed-voice calling out:

there you are! i have missed you. is there anything to eat? man, it’s so good to be home.

© Liezel Graham 2025

words that have been running around inside my head, wanting so badly to be set free that i have not polished this piece.

pretend it’s homemade bread, nothing fancy, but always good for filling a hungry tummy and for sticking to your metaphorical ribs.

liezel