Shame is like the velvet tongue of a snake, drawing me into hiding and then condemning me for being unworthy of connection. Fatally flawed. Shame’s best friend is pride. It conceals mistakes under a flimsy fabric of fantasy. I woulda, coulda, shoulda. Create a scapegoat or alternate story? Isolation. Depart without the heart. Burning cheeks and burning ears, melting anywhere out of here. Racing heart. Don’t want to be found out…. Until He approaches and I’m compelled to unveil my error because He is so kind. He draws me close and tells me that He can still use it. Even the spoiled worship senselessly sacrificed on the altar of apathy. The splintered pieces inside me become one again, unified and purpose remembered. The Antidote.
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