I. Plastic Armor

I was smaller then,

but never so

fierce.

The world felt

colossal—

crowded with angels

and shadows,

battles just beyond

thin veils of drywall

and rafters.

Every church pew

a trench line.

Every altar call

boot camp.

Tongues of flame like flags

waving.

Lions shaking their manes

around the pulpit,

and I—

a thin-armed soldier

clutching scriptures

like a sword

sharper than the sting of ridicule

and rejection.

I wore faith like

plastic armor from the toy aisle,

believed Heaven leaned in

to listen when I whispered

use me, Lord.

The devil lurked

behind cartoons,

game consoles,

a pop song with too much bass—

and I scanned the world like radar

for anything needing rebuke.

Victory was simple then:

knees on carpet

forehead pressed

heart thundering

angels stirring flame

in the recesses of my soul.

I was convinced

purity was power,

and holiness

had the smell

of polished wood

and grape juice.

I slept peaceful

knowing I stood

on the winning side

of a battlefield

I never even saw.

Possessions.

Passion.

Purpose.