I'm a virgin, I'm a whore, I'm a saint and I'm a demon. I've been dealt a foul hand, I've been cursed, with glutton's hunger, my blood is boiling, getting madder through my veins, it's mingling with my tainted purity. My body, a greedy pleasure, an object spoiled by lust, I could become any such ting, an alluring mother, rotten object of desire, every single thing I do, every single thing I wear, has to pass right through the lens of flesh-starved packs of broken men, to which I can't help falling prey. I love Him and love myself, at least I try to do as well, it's just so easy to get caught up in the ugly wrath of giving and giving, until the envy catches up with me, and I realize I've got nothing, for everything that I've gifted Him in confession, in the bedroom, it's a burden on my back, like His cross was. From time to time I'm overwhelmed, I get this utterly guttural urge to fall down to my knees and shed seven tears, one for each selfless sorrow, or perhaps my prideful sins. I wish to begin again, I wish to be holy, I wish to suffer, all for the sake of my faith, that I hold onto so blindly. Blessed Mary I am not, rather Mary Magdalene, I'm a wife, a shameless slut, blindly loyal, filled with sloth. My love expands beyond belief, beyond mere pleasures of the flesh, my love is devotion, beyond the grave. - L.M Constance