The wolves howl
with grief
and I feel among them;
just a wild animal
with a fear to survive.

Who am I
to beg for mercy
when I am aware
I do not
deserve
it.

I am but a stain;
**** of the earth,
I am nothing more than
a mistake,
a fallen drink
onto carpet,
destined to be washed away
with hard working hands
scrubbing clean.

I have become worthless
in my own eyes once more,
and wish to hate myself
out of existence again.

I do not attack the hand that strikes
me with cloth,
for I am just a stain...
waiting to be
washed
away.

I wish I could erase
the reminders
of my sin off of my skin.
I scrub it raw,
as if I am stained
with unholy filth
but cannot get away
from the reminder
of relapse.

I was doing so good,
I had felt like
my halo had been dusted off
and placed back on my head.

Only to be taken away
with the very hands
that put it there.

Even though I have fallen from heaven again,
I will shake the dirt from my wings,
heal their markings,
and return.

I must always remember,
no matter how many times I have fallen,
that I have a place
to go back to...

Heaven.

If you catch a bird
who doesn't wanna be caught
do not complain
when its talons
dig deep into your skin
and leave
their marks
there.

At best,
angels are devils
playing nice.

I am afraid to give something my all,
to pour myself empty
to make something full,
only for it to be graded
judged
assessed
as
"Not good enough."