The Wreck pt 1
My wreck,
and you come to see the damage.
I’m at a disadvantage.
You sift through shards like truths you want to hold,
but they cut deep—jagged, cold.
I brace for questions dressed in pity.
I sit raw and alone in the middle of my city,
watching strangers pass while I strip—
your scent, your voice, the touch of your lips.
My hands still shake from the aftershock
of words unsaid and time I can’t unlock.
They call it healing. I call it hell—
each breath a splinter, each thought a shell
of who I was before the crash,
before the silence, before the ash.
What’s left of me clings to the wreckage, bare.
Your ghost sits heavy in the midnight air.
I keep chasing echoes down dead-end streets,
begging the pavement for some kind of peace.
I tried laying bricks with trembling hands,
but the walls collapse like they understand—
I’m not ready. I build, then run.
All I have left is my tears and the sun.
My wreck,
and you came to see the damage.
But you get to miss the process—
me scrambling, trying to pick myself back up.
In the grand scheme of things, in our long game of chess,
I either turn to God or to the cup.
I sit in shards of glass because I want the truth to bleed me dry,
the hurt to fill my lungs and fuel my high.
I want it to cut deep—jagged and cold—
to mark a story that will probably go untold.
No questions dressed in pity—
just me, alone, in the middle of my city.
And maybe that’s all healing is—
a quiet war no one sees you win.
Laying brick after brick with blistered skin,
not for glory—just to begin
again.
The Wreck pt. 2: The Realization
No more dancing in the ruins—
I’ve scraped my heels raw on these old tunes.
Time to dance in realization,
not limbo dressed as liberation.
What happens to me is a mirror, not a mystery.
I know better, but better don’t always visit me.
I chase highs, dodge silence, call stillness a threat,
confuse peace with pause and mistake love for debt.
I draw blueprints in the dark,
then burn them down come morning light.
I’ve been rebuilding the wreck
with hands too shaky to hold it right.
Who’s in charge—my soul, or this story I wrote
just to stay afloat, just to swallow the smoke?
Is it all predestined, or am I the pen?
Each choice a verse I rewrite again and again.
I ask God if I’m off path.
He says:
“You knew the way when you were still—
you just got loud with wanting. That’s when you fell.”
So I split my choices like Moses split the sea—
one side survival, the other side me.
One path obedience, the other, pride—
and the flood rises fast when you can’t decide.
I confuse comfort for clarity,
call echoes of fear sincerity.
I think my need is urgent when it’s only loud.
I crave a sign while ignoring the cloud.
God don’t rush—but He won’t chase.
He waits at the gates. You return or you stay misplaced.
I want to be free, but I want to be right.
I want to taste Eden, yet sleep through the night.
So which is it—truth or temptation’s kiss?
The wreck keeps asking me what freedom is.
Maybe obedience ain’t self-denial—
maybe it’s choosing joy that lasts more than a while.
Maybe devotion is discipline dressed in grace.
Maybe God’s love has a patient face.
Maybe love is learning to say no,
not out of fear, but because you know
that to build again means letting go
of every brick that told you no.
Every blueprint scribbled in the smoke,
every false god you once invoked.
God is love—
but Love knows when to say: not this time.
God is grace—
but grace ain’t free if you stay blind.
And that’s the truth—
freedom’s expensive.
And it charges interest
on every fence you sit on,
every truth you try to bend,
every prayer that ends with “but—” instead of “amen.”
And still—
I rise from the wreck with ash on my skin,
a house half-built, but I’m stepping in.
No more waiting for the wind to shift.
I am the storm.
I am the gift.
The Wreck pt. 3: The Rebuild
I wake in a house I built from ache—
walls patched with prayers I never meant to say.
Floors still creak with every past mistake,
but I walk them barefoot anyway.
I still smell the smoke some mornings.
Grief seeps through the vents.
But now, I light candles where fire once burned
and call it incense.
This house ain’t perfect—
some bricks don’t sit right.
Some rooms feel colder than they should at night.
But it’s mine.
And I stay,
even when leaving would feel easier than choosing to pray.
God lingers in the back of my mind—
not loud, not stern—just steady, kind.
Sometimes I ignore Him, take my detours still,
but the guilt don’t taste like it used to—it tastes like will.
Like a knowing
that I’m choosing wrong.
But I also know the way back home.
And that’s the shift—
I fall, but now I rise
quicker,
cleaner,
less surprised.
The wreck don’t haunt me like it did before.
I leave the door open, but I don’t sleep on the floor.
I love again, not like war—but like wind:
soft hands, clean hearts, no need to win.
I still get tempted by the fire,
still drawn to chaos dressed as desire.
But I’ve learned:
just because it flickers doesn’t mean it’s light.
Just because it fills you doesn’t mean it’s right.
And still, I try—
still trip over old wires in a brand-new room.
I don’t need the pain to prove I’m deep.
Don’t need to bleed just to feel seen.
Now I write for the healing,
not the hurting.
For the living,
not the mourning.
I rebuild myself daily—
brick by breath,
truth by truth,
step by step.
This is how I rebuild.
It’s not clean.
It’s not easy.
But it’s real.
The wreck taught me how to break.
This house teaches me how to feel.
And maybe that’s all growth is—
leaving
when staying would be easier.
Praying
even when no answer comes clearer.
This is what healing looks like on the third try:
less fire, more sky.
Less drowning, more breath.
Less fear of the end—
more life after death.
The Wreck pt. 4: The Conclusion
My wreck—
and you caused the damage.
I was at a disadvantage.
I sat with hurt.
You put me through hell.
More life after death.
My last love and my last breath.
It took a lot of patience
and a lot of strength
to stand in the ruins
and not regret the length.
The ocean still speaks,
but it’s quieter now.
I watch from windows.
I survived, somehow.
The same waves that once dragged me deep
now sing me to sleep—
no panic, no gasp,
just peace I can keep.
I still wear my heart on my sleeve, unzipped,
but now it’s sewn, not split.
And the wreck?
It still lives in the back of my mind—
but not on the other side of the bed this time.
I’m not who I was
when the fire first came.
I rise without rage.
I heal without shame.
My wreck—
I’d be stupid to indulge again.
But when you appear in different font,
I’ll be ready.