Sculpt Me

Sculpt Me

By: Joy Ortiz

Lord of me

In my depravity,

Here I am

Seeking

A better way

Than mine. 

I feel dead weight

Of things I hate

Separating

Me from my best self. 

Corruption tinges

My limbs. 

What is sin

And what is humanity?

What is innocence,

And what must be removed?

How much must I cut?

Must I cut?

Will you, instead,

Cut with a master hand

Every part of me

That bears no fruit. 

What if I am

A sick and twisted tree?

Cut me off. 

Come and change me

Even if it hurts. 

Make me into

Something new. 

I only want to be

Yours. 

What is happiness?

A gift from your hand,

Sweeter and richer

Than anything

I could craft for myself. 

What is holiness?

A sculpture,

A hidden beauty

Revealed by cuts

Delivered by a master

Who sees the form

Of loveliness 

Inside of dying wood. 

Refine me. 

Smooth away my roughness,

My impurity.

Even if it takes

Abrasion,

I will bear it. 

If I can't be

A growing tree,

Then make me

Something better,

Someone happy,

Someone holy,

Someone lovely,

With no rough edges,

Sickness,

Or sin. 

If I cannot grow,

Then sculpt me.