GOMER

What it means to be wholly broken and wholly embraced.

Submitted by a dear friend, Olivia Ciotta. A deep reflection on Gomer.

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Gomer

For the cruelest joke was what they named me.

For though my name means “complete,”

Believe me,

I have never felt like enough.

For the love that they offered was counterfeit

And you had to jump through hoops to earn it.

So, it isn’t any wonder that I never felt worth it,

Because I could never jump very high.

And I can’t deny that I longed for their acceptance

The way a starving, stray cat longs for tables scraps no matter how disgusting.

And in trusting them for my affirmation,

I merely opened my heart up to the laceration of their rejection

Because I was an addict

And their abuse was my heroine.

Even when I drained the cup of their approval

Their removal from my life was not an option,

Because I needed their flattery to breathe

Even if it left my throat dry.

And I... all I wanted was to be pretty.

But they told me that “pretty is as pretty does”;

So, beauty became a touch not a word,

And I became their puppet.

I told myself I loved it.

You’re surprised?

For although they called me “whore”

What more could I want than to be idolized?

But I recognized the lies I whispered in my head

As I slept in the beds of strangers.

And my tears hit the ground with a sound

So silent,

Not even I could hear my sorrow.

I had long tuned out my pain.

For to name it was to claim it as mine,

And damage doesn’t sell as well as apathy.

But in time, my numbness became my ecstasy.

And while they touched me with their bodies,

There was only so much they could take.

But my mistake was believing that I held the high card.

For their disregard for my heart was higher than I expected.

And to be unaffected by such a wound

Would mean to be entombed with a beating heart run through completely.

“Completely”-that of all things-

Is what they named me.

Gomer- a misnomer really.

The only complete thing in me was the degree to which I’d been broken.

I’ve spoken openly with You.

You, who claim to love me.

As You can see from my story,

I’m a skeptic.

So, forgive me if I don’t believe You.

Truth is not a category I possess

And I guess neither is love.

So, get rid of this notion that You have something I need.

Because emptiness only requires space to breathe

And as for me, I don’t trust You.

What does trust even mean?

Your eyes are too clear to blame it on drink

So, I think You’re just crazy to say that You love me.

See, I cringe at the thought that love can be given,

But not bought at a price I could afford.

Who are You to give so freely,

And neatly

To one such as I?

Whose stomach is swollen with all the lies I have been forced to swallow.

Who is hollow like a honeycomb

Licked bone dry by the greedy tongues of ones who come out only at night.

What light can You shine on such sinister places?

What water can cleanse faces so sullied with shame and regret?

Can You forget all of who I am

And still claim to love me?

I’m too filthy to wear white.

A whore can hardly be a bride.

And I’ve been touched too many times to ever be considered pure.

There’s no cure for my condition of faithlessness.

But You care less from my diagnosis of being beyond repair.

And Your stare tears asunder my walls of self-protection.

And I am left in an ocean of a feeling I can’t identify.

But Your eyes speak of safety

Amidst waves I can’t control.

You hold my heart of barbed-wire

In hands that have scars of their own.

And this imperfection makes You seem much more perfect-

A defect that reflects my shattered soul.

And a love that hung on to make me whole.

The shepherd who lays down his life for the sheep.

And in Your love,

Gomer is made wholly complete.