Search for me in the barren desert of false self.
Search for me in the bitter landscape of fear.
I wear my loathing like a skin I did not know I grew.
And now I wonder:
How many skins lie below this skin,
the ghostly remains of a motherless child.

Grace be my Mother,
Cradle my frightened self.
Breath sweetness into my heart.
Say a prayer over stillborn selves
Smooth away the dead skins.
My stillborn selves hunger
For the sweet breast of Grace.