They say I am not pure. That my soul, stained, torn, should bow to cleansing flame. But I do not kneel. I rise, dripping with imperfection. And in that dirt, I am holy. The silhouette of your filthy past, they say it cloaks you. Their tongues wag in candlelight. And yet, their hands are not clean. Still, they preach. They chant your sins into the night air. As if repetition will wash them white. But I have worn sin like silk. It fits me well. And every thread, a story. A memory of what it means to be. My cracks are my confession. My confession is my light. My imperfection is my purity tonight. They told me of your past as if it were poison. Fed me your name like venom. But I swallowed it, smiling. Because I knew, their gossip could never bruise me more than my own doubt. From ruin, I crawled out, Blackened knees, bleeding hands. Still reaching. Because love…even dirty love, is still devotion. I drag my past behind me, Shell cracked but shining. You, with freckles like constellations; I see you. You, who held my ruin like relics. And in that wreckage, I found my altar. I am not pure. I am not clean. I am fire, blood, salt, and scream. My flaws are scripture. My scars are psalms. I am holy in my harm. I am the ritual, the ruin, the rebirth. Imperfection… my only truth.
