Tiny Grave-Markers

I wonder sometimes if there might be three, tiny grave-markers in the corners of that unseen place that once held you.

I wonder sometimes 
if there might be three,
tiny grave-markers
in the corners of that unseen place
that once held you.

A mother’s womb turned graveyard;
a woman’s body turned enemy.

What’s it like warring with your own self?
To wake up hating the vessel, but forced to live in it?
Learning to accept that even when I hate my body,
God calls it good?

Broken.
Graveyard.
Weak.
But God says,
Redeemed—already, but not yet.
It’s just that the not yet sometimes feels like 
Never.

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