I was born into this pink house I call my body. A woman, five foot eight when I look into the mirror. But I’m so much more than these shoulders, these ten fingers and dark eyes. Much more than this subliminal skin. I was given this pink house and was told to fill it; with what, I had no clue.

I was responsible for decorating it: me, the vessel. I didn’t know where to begin. I was a host with no substance. This was a task I did not ask for, a form I did not choose, and yet I had to make something out of this being.

As it always happens, I took on the interests and characteristics of my parents, my family, and the people around me. I painted the inside of this house with all kinds of shades. They gave me a base, translucent: a light layer of truth and wonder, which would then be glazed over by a red layer of the material world: stress, trauma, and constant nightmares. I tried to paint over this with happy splotches of teal and yellow, to try and laugh off the pain. I filled it with eagles, and sunsets, white corral rocks, flamenco shoes and an upright piano.

I tried to plant a garden in my house, a peaceful place, with soft white lights. I didn’t know how to nurture it, so it died off pretty fast. I whispered to it at night, sang lullabies to it in the mornings to see if I could bring these flowers back to life. Not even my tears could do that. I pined for more. I brought in sharp knives and daffodils, Nirvana and Pink Floyd, music videos of dead children floating in the pool. I stuck a needle in my leg, and sewed my mouth shut.

I started doing cocaine. The wallpaper shriveled up in fear. Now divided, this house was a cage of anger and hate, and wasted dreams. It became a toilet where I would waterboard myself every night. Life lost its glimmer. I ran barefoot through the halls, living in a haze of sweat and alcohol. Flies fluttered and found a home inside my throat. I knocked on every door. Not one would open up. I was trapped in a labyrinth of soul. This place was not meant for this. This space yearned for life, a holy breath, but I could not find the source.

I walked blindly through the folds, the flaps of time, the years danced backwards through my mind. I was stuck in a vat, churning for my life. I fainted, passed out naked on the floor, after some drugs made me lose all sense and control. I heard a flicker, a flame whispering through the lies “what are you doing on the floor?” Silence. “You were made for more.” I opened my eyes, got up off the floor, and felt a surge of clarity. What place was this? Look at all the ways I’ve failed to care for what was given me. What was I made for? What is this all about? I had blackened all the walls of this pink house, lurid stains everywhere; I defiled it completely. I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror. I wanted to go throw myself into the lake. Is this all there is? I could no longer carry this pink burden, this field of bare trees that could not bear any fruit.

I sat in the darkness, looked at the flame. I cried and cried, black tears of tar; the tar swallowed me whole. Frozen, I cried out to you, Lord. I had nowhere else to go; a chain for every thought. I hoped the moonlight would melt me away until there was nothing left of me. A wind swept curling through my toes, it came in at dawn, through the cracks; its fragrance filled my nose. It broke the chains that bound me to this world. You kindled the flame that was already howling inside me. It purged all the fear and the doubts. It pierced through the veil, spliced it straight down, revealing the temple waiting in stillness.

You told me a story, the house that was built upon a rock, a flowing river. Your body is the river inside me. A temple built by God, for God, to worship and glorify you. Dear Lord, you took a house that was rotting, a house that couldn’t stand, and breathed life into it, through that door. You promised a home where I would never be desolate, a haven where I could stay fresh. You filled this vessel with your love, a place where I could worship every moment of the day; a stronghold that will never be destroyed. You told me that I would last forever in you, a promise I keep close to my heart.

I reason and doubt, but you slap me awake and point at the cross, your death and that love that paid the full price. I cry and complain. I scream “I want to bring other things into this house.” You tell me “in time.” You’ve taught me how to make space, and where I can put each thing in its place. With you in the center, I have nothing to fear. The carpet is clean, the walls are all white. The light bursts boldly through the curtain in folds, and time tiptoes gently through the hall. I kneel down to pray. There’s nothing I’d rather be than this temple, the sacred connection between us. You sit on the chair while I tell you my thoughts. You braid all my hair and then sing me to sleep. I walk through your door, with all that is wrong in my soul. You clean up my sores, the blood in my eyes, and you wash all my clothes. I stand naked before you, and shake your hand with full force. You tell me I shine like never before. It’s all thanks to you.