Ashes

fingers grip vehemently around her wrist—bones shrieking to shatter, as he drags her out into the public with only a soiled bed sheet and blood to cover her shivering, naked body.

with his free hand, he takes her hair and knots it into his fist, cocking her head back to expose her delicate neck, revealing her rapid heartbeat fluttering just under her bruised jawline.

she squeezes the vision from her eyes as she tries not to inhale in his penetrating voice rotten with smoke and ash, as he breathes deep into her ear

“orphan

adulteress

prostitute”

their mocking words, like serrated stones that rip apart the tender skin at her chest, kissing her collarbones, fracturing her ribs into fragments. and the judgement of death flirts with her—teasing as it approaches, slowly.

truth is, she chose this. like an addict, she whores herself for sweet Flattery, taking shelter behind the arms of Fear, as Shame and Guilt take turns paying for her affections. she is a run away, an orphan by choice.

she is deserving of every jaring name fashioned into jagged stone and knives of glass driven into her chest. claiming her identity. and like ravens they encircle her, preying for more of her flesh.

When a Still Voice comes from the quiet Man writing in the sand, a gentle song that she can barely hear. she catches only the refrain:

…let him be the first to cast the stone at her…

terror seizes her body, as she anticipates the imminent onset of blows.

instead, the violent grip loosens at her wrist, releasing it to drop limply to the dirt. the voices grow dim. and she flinches as a shadow eclipses over her. 

Daughter…Has no one condemned you?

tremors ripple through her ashen lungs. 

The Man is silent again.

carefully, she looks up to see the Righteous King kneeling beside her. 

His Eyes, unlike any that looked at her, are an expanse of Mercy and Compassion, 

    His soft Voice, unlike any that spoke to her,

Beloved, Neither do I condemn you.