“For this reason I say to you, her sins, which are many, have been forgiven, for she loved much; but he who is forgiven little, loves little.” (Luke 7:47)
I just finished watching a prison documentary film called “What I Want My Words To Do To You”… it’s about a maximum security prison for female criminals where a creative writing workshop was held and the writings that came out of the female inmates’ souls. There’s some powerful stuff here. I was touched by the following essay by Cynthia Berry, as she writes a letter to her mom…
Dear mom, I know you believe it was my heartaches and pain
that caused me to do drugs and prostitute.
Mom, it was easy for me to use the pain to do all the things I did.
Thinking of the sweat of my uncle on my face as he molested me
made it easy for me to believe I was a whore,
and that the only way to even the pain was to make men literally pay.
I never grew up until it was too late,
and when I did, it was in a court room,
learning the truth of what I had allowed myself to believe,
and a man now was dead.
Another sick male who thought pussy was a drug of life.
Now after this man is dead, by my hands,
I see a father, a grandfather, and some woman in a wheelchair’s son.
I remember stabbing him three times.
A forensic report says I stabbed this man twenty-eight times in his throat.
Only three wounds were fatal, which leaves me the horror of
did I continue to stab a dead man?
Everything I do, every thought I make is based on my victim.
I live for my victim, and I feel the only justice to his death
is when God takes for me what I took from him, which is life.
For every day I think I killed a seventy-one year-old man.
A man who can not truly harm me.
A man who in one minute saw and received all my anger
and lost what was not mine to take, his life.
He should not be dead.
He was not the one who I was angry at.
He was not the one I was killing.
I didn’t see him, I saw everyone who ever harmed me.
My mother, my uncle, every man that has kicked me in the heart.
Mom, the truth is I’m guilty of my refusal to face self.
Not grow out of the walls of my pain.
There are days I wish my number could punch up in God’s computer
so I can stop the blood stain on my hand and in my heart
and I can stop being haunted every day I live.
Love, your God given daughter, Cynthia.