I’d never seen these before:

Lines that pull me from my bed like earth’s gravity

On my arm

On my thighs

On my ankles

Lines that darken when the seasons change from warm to cold

Lines that lighten in the sun

Lines that walk a line themselves

Timid footsteps along a crumbling edge

Lines that whisper nevermore

Lines that burn without warning and leave stripes on white sheets

Lines that scream this is your portion

Lines running red like Virginia soil and drop on the carpet

Strong enough to make me cut my dinner with a spoon

Lines that suggest skip dinner if you won’t make more

Forged with iron and steel, lines that cannot be undone

Lines that love company

Lines that do not believe three is a crowd

Three is a get-together but thirty is a party

Lines that get into bed with Sorrow and Shame

Suddenly the bed isn’t big enough for all four of us

One of us has to leave to sleep on the couch

Lines that groan in the morning light

Lines that speak softly to Shame take it from here

So I drink from the cup that is my portion

And I let Sorrow and Shame and Lines wash over my tongue

I swallow them whole, a trio carved into my skin

That now swims in my stomach and wanders through my veins

So much so that I forget to respond to my birth name

Lines! I’d lower my head

Sorrow! I’d raise my eyes, cowardly

Shame! I am a heap in a corner

What was unfamiliar is now my ribboned skin.

Sometimes we believe what our darkness tells us: pain, suffering, and punishment is our portion. We convince ourselves that the presence of lines calls for more. But this is not what we have been told by the potter, the unmovable mover. Although Lines represents the days that oftentimes cannot be escaped, we must remember that our portion is not as they say. My flesh and my heart will fail, but the Lord is the strength of my heart and my portion forever (Ps. 73:26).