At the end of the abyss
The sinner speaks: Here I am again, knee-deep in my own wreckage, a creature of habit, a ritual of ruin— the 100th time, like clockwork, I unravel. This skin, soaked in sin, never quite sheds, no matter how I try to scrape it off. You, up there, unseen but everywhere, do You tire of me as I do of myself? How can I beg for mercy when all I know is how to fall again, like a dog to its vomit? Repentance is just a word I wear, but its weight is elusive, its meaning slips through my fingers like ash. I’d rather be forgotten than forgiven, a billion times is too much grace for one who breaks so easily. To die would be simpler, to let the void take me whole. But this death to self— this torment of surrender— how can I manage when I have no control? The mind forfeits long before the body does, and here I am, lost in the chasm of both. The one who listens: You speak of ruin as if it defines you, yet ruin is merely the shadow that forgets the light exists. Your breaking is not the end— it is the