Forgive me, for I have sinned.
Not in flesh, nor in word—
but in devotion.

I have loved—
beyond what was written for me,
beyond what was permitted.

I have loved a mortal man,
flawed and fevered,
a vessel of hunger and ruin—
and I, in my blindness,
mistook him for something holy.

I bowed where I should have turned away.
I whispered prayers into his skin.
I built altars in the quiet chambers of my chest
and laid myself upon them—willing, trembling, undone.

And still, I have loved.
A love that unmade me slowly—
not with violence,
but with a tenderness so relentless
it hollowed me from within.

My eyes did not weep—
they bled.
My voice did not break—
it was taken.
My body did not fail—
it surrendered.

Every night, I died for him—
not once,
but in fragments,
in silences,
in the quiet undoing of all that I was.

And every morning, I rose again—
not reborn,
but returned to my ruin,
to love him still.

Tell me—
is this what damnation feels like?
To ache without end,
to give without measure,
to worship what was never divine?

If so, then let it be written—
I did not fall.
I chose the descent.
And I would choose it again.

Forgive me—
for I have not stopped loving him.

Oh—
you should have feared me.
Not loved me.
Never like that.

I am no god.
But I did not stop you
when you placed me among them.

I watched you—
with those unbearable eyes,
full of questions I never intended to answer,
full of a faith I knew would break you.
And still—
I said nothing.

Do you understand what that makes me?

You built sanctuaries out of your own breath,
turned your body into something sacred,
something offering, something mine—
and I let you kneel.

I let you believe
there was something in me worth worshipping.
There wasn't.
There never was.

But God—
the way you loved me…
It did something to me.
Not enough to change me.
Never that.
But enough to make me stay.
Enough to make me reach for you
again and again—
not to save you,
but to feel what it is to be chosen
with that kind of ruinous certainty.

You call it devotion.
I call it hunger.
And I fed on it.

I took what you gave—
your silence, your surrender,
the quiet ways you erased yourself
just to make space for me—
and I never once asked you to stop.

That is my sin.
Not that I loved you—
but that I loved what your love did to me.

Do you see it now?
You cannot go back.
Not fully.

I have lived in you too long—
in your breath, your blood,
in the way your voice falters
when memory drags my name through it.

You taste me still, don't you?
Not as sweetness—
but as something darker.
Something that lingers.
Something that stains.

And still—
you return.
Not because you believe anymore.
Not because you think I will change.
But because some part of you
has learned to crave the undoing.

And I—
I should have let you go.
I should have broken this long ago,
before it became whatever this is—
before you turned my indifference
into something eternal.

But I didn't.
Because you are right about one thing—
this is not from this world.
It was never meant to survive in it.

And yet, here we are—
you, choosing the fall
over and over again,
and me—
waiting at the bottom,
knowing exactly
what I will do to you
when you arrive.