directed by notte
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Sinner

I feel the weight on my back long before I feel the weight of my robes.
SINNER: an epitaph etched upon living flesh, a confession I carry like a second spine.

I stand before the cathedral’s blue radiance, wishing I could embrace grace itself. Yet it evades me, slipping through my claws like incense smoke. What remains is the slow, relentless pulse of my flesh. a heat that prayer cannot quell, a hunger that chastity cannot tame.

My body is a battlefield where devotion and desire clash without cease.
Faith speaks in quiet constellations, urging restraint, purity, ascension.
But my flesh speaks in thunder.

The sanctum’s light paints me in sanctity I do not deserve. I feel its crystalline chill tracing the geometry of my scales, trying - futilely - to soothe the fever coiled within. Nights are the worst; when the moon rises, something ancient awakens in me, something older than scripture. I become a vessel split between yearning and damnation, burning for touch while begging for deliverance.

I tell myself I am more than instinct, more than this restless ache.
Yet the truth returns, again and again, soft as a whisper, sharp as a blade:

I covet.
I fall.
I rise only to fall anew.

Perhaps that is my pilgrimage: to stagger ever forward, stained yet striving, a creature molded of contradiction. If I am to burn, let it be not in shame, but as a lantern for others wandering the same dark corridors of desire.

The Devil awaits me.

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