Words.

What if my words could be seen on your skin?

Would I consider them more?

Carefully, tenderly picking just the right one.

For you.

Feeling the weight of each syllable heavy on my pregnant tongue.

Ready, to bring life.

A gift.

Each word a balm of hope on your tired, sun-scorched heart.

Or, not.

The choice is mine.

At times I forget.

I refuse to see the reflection of Jesus on your face.

I pick my words like stones off the sin-stained ground.

Weighing them one-by-one.

Choosing just the right one.

To break

you.

To mock

you.

To bind your tired, sun-scorched heart in chains

that might, in time, prove unbreakable.

Such power they hold.

Every word.

Life, or death

on my tongue.

And your heart

in my hands.

Your life

a fragile bird,

struggling.

Within my power to free, or to crush.

Proverbs 18:21

© 2017. Liezel Graham. All rights reserved.