If I'm The Problem
If I’m the problem, you might be the sin—
The serpent cloaked in seraph’s borrowed hue;
I drank your light and felt the dark begin,
For every saint I lost was shaped like you.
You were the scripture written on my skin,
A gospel carved in ash, profane yet true;
I built a church of grief, and worshiped in
The ruins of the faith I gave to you.
You spoke of love, yet thunder veiled your name,
Your mercy burned more fierce than any flame;
I called you God, and found a beast the same—
A tender void no prayer could ever tame.
If I am damned, it’s you who lit the spark—
And called it love to sanctify the dark.
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