“Come as you are,” he said.

His winter chapped lips grazed

The metal cross stitch of

An outdated microphone.

His words felt more like a dare

Than an invitation as they landed

On the longing to be seen parts of me.

But the more I showed up just as I was

With weather beaten wings gently

Disguised under Sunday morning dresses,

The more I began to see:

“Come as you are,” is not always

The warm embrace a desperate

Soul wishes for.

Sometimes it’s a perfectly timed

Promise of freedom whispered

From a prison of pride.

A veil of false humility.