The problem with sin is,
You’ll tear your body apart looking for Satan.
The work is eternal—
A ledger of wrongs etched into skin.
Each mark a plea for mercy,
offerings to a god sculpted by dread

Grace kept a distance,
A promise forever deferred by unspoken rules.
Time twisted by the need
To stave off oblivion.
You counted the seconds,
The steps, the words, the mistakes,
As if numbers could satiate the beast.
As if order could lift you from the pit.

But the pit is inside you,
A chasm of what-ifs and never-enoughs
Its walls slick with the weight of guilt,
Its depth echoing with the whispers of
Everything you couldn’t fix.

And still, you kneel,
Offering your rituals 
Hoping, one day,
The scales will balance,
The weight will lift,
And grace will let you breathe.