God, you shaped me from dirt—what cursed land did you mold me from? My skin, fractured like drought-stricken clay, as if the earth beneath me was parched before I even took form. veins tangled like dead vines, shriveled and torn by the ravenous drumbeat of my famished heart. My ribs are weak, barely a frail lattice trying to cage the creature that claws from within. My mind is a hive of hollowed-out spaces, every crevice filled with stale air thickened by sins. My mouth spills filth, my tongue too dull to sever the fangs that blasphemously pierce the heavens and draw the blood of the divine.

I've cried enough to flood the ground that bore me, as if the salt in my tears could cleanse the rot, But I was built too impenetrable. The flood never sinks, only rises. Thus, I am submerged—not in deliverance, but in the inexorable, asphyxiating gravity of my own being. My tears offer no sustenance; no floral exultations arise from this desolation, no renewal springs forth from the ceaseless deluge of my sorrow.

Yet perhaps the gravest torment lies in the stillness—an abominable, immutable stasis. I am neither ruin nor vestige destined to disintegrate. Instead, I am suspended—calcified—a monument to futility, ensnared in an unending liminality. Neither fully alive to blossom, nor wholly dead to dissolve. A timeless artifact of defeat, impervious to the passage of time, immune to the reach of hope or the salve of transformation. A relic entombed in its own despair, obstinately unbroken, yet too vacant, too barren, to ever know the grace of restoration.