To be in his arms is to be in the trees.
There is a freedom in His forest, a silent permission to acknowledge the animal under my skin, to listen with pricked ears for footfalls and snapping branches, to run, reckless and frightened, to fall in the soft underbrush and wait, breathless, to be found. In His forest He asks me for nothing but truth. There is an honesty to the shade and slow growth of these woods; He is the comforting setting of every childhood fairy tale, the backdrop to every worrisome bedtime story, the delight of every teddy bear’s picnic. His forest is where I go when when I want to disappear. He will fade into the tapestry of leaves and trees with me, calm, or He will rise, a shadowy beast, plucking and snatching at me, easy prey. His jaw will close around my milky throat, bones crushing under His hands, like chalk. And still, even in that tireless grip, I cannot be broken, only reborn, ecstatic and unashamed, naked and held amongst the trees, the blackness of the treeline growing darker and more ink-like in the fading light.
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