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 pause before the rebuilding.
You wrestle with control,
yet it is your grip that blinds you.
In letting go, you would find the peace
you claw at with broken hands.
Purification is not an erasure,
it is the fire that burns away
what was never truly you.
You seek meaning in the process,
but the meaning comes after,
when the ash has settled and the new growth begins.
To be forgotten is not your fate,
nor is forgiveness a burden too great.
But I will not force what you do not want.
Come to me when your heart no longer
aches for escape but for healing.
You return, yes, but each return is a step,
however small, toward the light.
The sinner Responds:
Your words sting in places
I didn’t know still had feeling.
But I can’t see the light You speak of.
My eyes are too full of the darkness
I made my home.
How do I die to the self I’ve known
for so long without losing all that I am?
Is there really hope for one like me,
who loves the mess as much as he hates it?
Or am I bound to this endless cycle—
of sin, regret, repeat?
I wish to believe, but faith feels
like a foreign tongue I cannot learn
The one who listens Concludes:
Faith is not learned, it is lived.
And hope? It is not for the perfect,
but for the broken who dare to rise.
You ask how to die to self—
perhaps it begins in understanding
that what you hold on to is not truly living.
There is grace in your return,
even when you come stained with failure.
You are not bound to this,
unless you choose to be.
And even then,
I will wait until your heart
knows its own need to be made whole.
For you, I have always waited,
and I will wait still.
But know this:
each time you fall,
you come closer to standing again.
I'm tired of apologizing for the same sin like a hard headed oaf but I'm sorry God and I'm sorry honey I'm broken but I never seem to quite get past this thorn. When will it end ☠️
