1724:33 2025/03/25
Oh, but you were made so I could fall to my knees, so I could learn what it means to tremble—not before wrath, but before something far more cruel: mercy.
You move like light slipping through cathedral windows, untouched, untainted, while I am nothing but the dust that settles on the pews, the sinner who dares to look upon the divine. You were carved from something sacred, something celestial, a hymn made flesh, while I was forged in longing, in the desperate, unholy need to touch what was never meant for hands like mine.
And yet, I reach.
I reach because you were made so that I would know suffering, so that I would taste the agony of desire and still whisper prayers to a God who does not listen. So that I would learn that devotion is not only for the pure, but also for the wretched—because who could ever need salvation more than the damned?
I reach because what is faith if not longing? What is worship if not an ache so deep it carves into the soul? If love is a prayer, then I have spent lifetimes on my knees, bruising them against the altar of you, pressing my forehead to cold marble, whispering your name like scripture between trembling lips.
Tell me, will the heavens open if I beg loud enough? Will the stars take pity if they see how I kneel, how I press my hands together in mock reverence, not to a deity, but to you? If I offer my ruin as penance, will you take it? If I carve my devotion into my skin, will you read it? Or will you turn away, as heaven always does when the unworthy call its name?
Oh, but you were made so I could worship.
And I, in my ruin, was made to know that no matter how much I pray, grace will never be mine to keep.
That no matter how much I reach, my hands will never be clean enough to hold you.