You Are Not a Sin

You are not a sin.

Now, that line rumbles through my spine, decaying old scripts that were woven into my being.

I have held hands with the devil and fell in love with God's angels.

I know what it's like to cry into the night looking for an answer and only getting tragedy,

And I know what it's like to spit in the face of the sun, and curse my own vessel and my own parents for being built this way.

I have sworn at God and attempted to tear his teeth out of his skull so he can no longer slander my name.

I have met Eldritch horrors in the woods and let them cut my body to pieces so they could sew themselves into my skin.

I wear my body now as a testament: of anger, of self-righteousness, of melancholy, of romanticism.

I am no longer the cynic that wanted to drown in holy water.

I am the devil that found peace in a cage, made a home in fire, ruled a kingdom in flames.

I set ablaze my own desires and now I snort the ashes of what was.

'Cause I know what sin is; I've tasted it.

And I am not that.