I am hiding in walls,
sleeping in spaces cramped and small
tears too dry to fall,
on cheeks too bruised to hurt
my skin too tender to feel,
still my heart is strong,
beating, beat by beat,
like a clock counting down to the next man to come here,
to the next violent moment,
to the rescue that might never come,
for a child that no one knows is missing...
I want to write a story of rescue.
I want to write of The One that redeems.
I want to end this poem with hope, but I fear that there are two types of wisdom: the wisdom of what should be and the wisdom of what is.
What is, is the reality that most girls in prostitution or slavery are not rescued.
I want to write of the God who took on flesh to feel the pain that all humans feel.
I want to write of Jesus with skin that was broken, ripped apart, bruised and bleeding.
I want to write that this girl knows that God has heard her cry, but until we stand up for her, until we find her, until we pray and cry out for her, I do not know that I can genuinely end a poem of heart break with hope, because we are her rescuers and so few of us are running to her, so few of us are taking on her pain.
This is not an accusation, because I cannot accuse you as I sit in my apartment on my computer, comfortable with food in my stomach.
Still, it is where I am at with this poem.
I cannot end it well, because I fear her story does not end well.
Hear their cries, help me to cry with them, the men, women, and children, break our hearts, move us to mercy and action, guide us, and equip us to be their rescuer.
Give her hope, use me.