I am filth.
Not a metaphor, not an exaggeration—
a rotting soul wrapped in skin
that reeks of rebellion.

My hands, stained with
selfish gain and secret lusts.
My tongue, a dagger,
slashing truth for convenience.
I’ve asked to be seen.
I’ve wept, not from guilt or fear—
NO.
From knowing I’m exposed.

Every breath borrowed,
and yet I use it to curse the One
who gave it.
I continue to
masquerade in virtue—
festering behind my teeth,
confessions stuck
in a room of pride,
hate and envy—
sins I’ve rehearsed
until they feel like second nature.

I lie,
then lie about lying.
I withhold mercy,
expecting grace.
I use God’s name
like punctuation,
then dare to ask why
He feels so far away.

Justice pure—
I’m already ashes.
No trial. No plea.
Just the sentencing
of a rebel who knew better.

Eternal torment
isn’t harsh—
it’s fair.
To suffer alone in the darkness
I spent a lifetime choosing.
To be surrounded by flames
that cling to my selfish figure,
as my soul forgets
what light even felt like.

That’s the story.
That’s my story—

if mercy never bled.
If love stayed seated
and let wrath run its course.
That’s the ending
I wrote for myself
with every proud excuse,
every ignored Jiminy Cricket.

However—

My story was changed,

When someone else
stepped into the punishment
like a lamb into slaughter.
Too perfect to comprehend,
too holy to owe me anything.
Yet, He took everything.

The nails.
The mockery.
The weight of every moral corruption
I pretend doesn’t matter.
All of it—absorbed
by a Man who never sinned,
so I could be called blameless.

How dare I grumble
about the imperfections in my life
when He shattered Himself
so my own imperfections wouldn’t
consume me?

How dare I complain
about my thorns,
when He wore a crown of them
just to rescue me
from what I had rightfully earned?

No…
this breath I breathe,
this peace I feel,
this hope I cling to—

it’s borrowed. 

And forever,
I acknwledge—
just who paid for it.