I’d Rather Be Normal

A poem for anyone wrestling with past temptations and present obedience.

I’d rather be normal.
That’s the thought that slips in
when modesty feels like a curtain,
between myself and the world,
and obedience gets no ovation.

I’d rather be effortless—
low-cut confidence,
hip-sway sermon,
a hundred eyes saying
“you belong.”

I know how to pull that off.
I used to wear it
like perfume and armor.

I’d rather scroll than sit in silence.
Smoke the stillness out of my chest.
Laugh too loud at things I don’t believe.
Be soft-spoken in conviction
but sharp-edged in style—
unbothered, unburdened,
unholy.

But You.
You ripped that taste off of my tongue.
Not by shame,
but by showing me what it cost.

You speak in whispers
when the world screams,
and somehow Your stillness
shakes me more.

Now, I see the way wide roads
cheer me on
while cliffing off.
How “normal” in this world
often comes with chains
you don’t notice
‘til you’re bleeding from the wrists.

But still—
I miss the mindless ease, sometimes.
The way seduction felt like power.
The way laziness disguised as peace.
The way my body was currency,
and I never checked the exchange rate.

Now I wear higher neck lines
and carry heavier thoughts.
I trade attention for integrity
and wonder if anyone sees.

I say no—
when every part of me
remembers how yes
felt like momentary flight.

But I’d rather follow You.
Even when it hurts.
Even when it’s lonely.
Even when it feels like
I’m the only one

Walking upstream
in a world that floats
toward
the fall

Because I’ve seen
where that stream flows
when I go
where I’d rather.

And I’d rather be Yours.

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Sensuality and the Sands of Sin

A poem about sensuality, insecurity, and the worth I built on shifting sand until the Savior pulled me out. - By Taylor O’Lynn

How easy it was to suck
in my gut, poke out my chest,
put a sway in my step
wearing a pair of tight pants.

Unspoken invitation, a trap
no one would call out
until they fell in.
Because then, it was their fault.

How easy it was to strengthen my ego
with the crank of necks
attached to the heads of married men
my prize was when their eyes flicker sideways
to let my lips curl – I’ll keep your secret

the ring on their finger
sounded more like a challenge than a vow
a test of my wiles, my power.
I couldn’t deny the rush
drunk on their gaze, a lush.
I wanted to make them linger

I dipped into the open door of my closet
like a pool of promiscuous possibilities
Sifting through deep V necks, lace
rimmed skirts, and thigh high boots.
Conceptualizing the competition
I had to be more forkable than them
more edible, tasty to the tongue
enticing to the flesh

praying men would stumble
How normal it felt
to hate other women who must
share the same hunger, the lust
Who must secretly
think the same of me -
thus, they became my enemy.
Thus, I became theirs.

The man on my arm –
I held him close like a trophy,
and yet studied him like a suspect.

Searching followed lists
Tapping tiny bubbles with blonde hair
Swiping to the year 2014
hunting for his name in her likes,
counting interactions, cataloging sins,
prosecutor, judge, executioner,
and yet—
I was the one on trial.

Stuck in the loop of my own brain,
knowing I was insane,
knowing I was in pain,
knowing I was losing,
screaming out His name—
but not knowing who He was.

Not yet.

I saw the world as a game
Toy and string
cat and mouse
a glance, a nod, a taste,
points in my favor.
Validation, validation, validation.
I ate it up

And yet, on the drive home,
hand in his, upper thighs still exposed,
I told myself it was a compliment –
every lingering glance, every turned head,
was proof that he had won.

Didn’t it make him proud,
to have a woman other men wanted?
Wasn’t it validation for him, too?

But beyond the exterior,
as the tires turned, so did my thoughts
If his gaze, drifting, settling on another—
the way theirs settled on me,
the way I needed them to see me—
knowing what they’d do with me…

It carved through me,
split me open,
hollowed me out.

My worth built on their gaze,
My identity threaded through their hunger,
My existence wrapped in the hands of men
who didn’t even know my name.

I wasn’t afraid of losing him.
but afraid of him seeing what I already knew—
that I was nothing more
than the hips and the lips ,
skin and bone,
a body meant for consumption.

That I was only worth as much as I was wanted.
That I had built my foundation
on the shifting sands of sensuality,
and the tide was pulling it away.

I called out to a God I did not yet know.
He heard me—
but He let me sink deeper,
let me feel the weight of the wreckage,
let me drown in the very sands
I had built my life upon.

Before He reached down,
before He pulled me out,
before He became the foundation
and showed me how to build the house…

Not yet.

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