This is my story.
It covers me,
every part.
I wear it like a uniform
in my head
and on my heart.

This is my story.
Bittersweet
on my tongue.
Can I ever taste another
without flavouring
it wrong?

This is your story.
When I look
at you I see
Your words through the eyes
of my own
biography.

This is your story.
Who am I
to judge you?
For whatever brought you this far
and carries
you through.

This is our story.
We are a people
who cry
To know and be known
until the day
that we die.

This is our story.
It was meant
to be heard
By each other and by the One
who first gave us
the words.

There is power in story
To face failings and faults,
To embrace healing and laughter,
To trace the hand of God.

So we plant our stories
In the hearts and the minds,
Of all who will listen
And respond in kind.

So here’s me, one last poem for National Poetry Writing Month. In my mind, the scariest kind of writing of all.