Crimes

This is not a crime of death or sin.

It's a crime against me. Not against him.

It's a crime of deciding I'm worth less than dirt

Choosing, believing this fake recreation

of something that was meant to be golden.

I'm told, then,

this visage I wear--it's a lie.

it's a lie.

So if I will not honor me,

why should anyone try?

When they do, I play blind,

so wrapped up in my pride

that I think that I should be the one to decide

who I am,

what I'm worth,

and how I should be treated

by myself,

by the world,

and by God.

So this crime against me--it's a crime against him

That I would dare to defy what is truth by deciding

that my view of myself is the worthier image

when his eyes have never been biased--

He calls me a princess,

and yet I deny it.

But the truth is this:

It's not my decision.

I am who I am, and I didn't create that either,

so the blindness will fade and I see the revision:

I am priceless and cherished and worthy of love

and all the inadequacies I can think of are irrelevant

because an opinion that supersedes all of my own

will annihilate all of the false mes I've known.

I'll defend myself, then,

against the arrows and stones,

knowing that I deserve so much better.

It's not what I do, what I say, how I think

that determines my worth--

rather just that His glory is living in me

makes me worthy, beautiful, cherished and free

and I see,

finally,

what I've not seen in ages.

as the book of forever rests in his hands

with his words upon words of his glorious plans--

I am who I am, and I'm happy to be,

so I'll dance

across

the pages.