She. That woman. She gave it to me, and I ate.
Fig leaves and the blame game. She gave. He took. They’re hiding behind bushes now.
And still she gives and still he takes, and whose fault is it when she’s on a stage in front of the world, exploiting herself to prove that she has the knowledge, that nothing is kept from her?
The Garden was shut, but the fruit keeps reproducing itself, and we’re looking to know and to be known. She wants an identity, and how do we define her?
By how much she gives, by how many can take it? Or by what she’s been given, by the One who knows her?
The sacrifice, the covering better than fig leaves, life.
It’s Saturday again, and I’m writing on Lisa-Jo’s Five Minute Friday Prompt. You can, too, using the button above. (Also, I don’t know how long this took — my five minutes were interrupted partway through.
©2013 by Stacy Nott