anachronism

you are unholy. you know this — it has been ingrained in you, a self-imposed slap on the wrist sticking, clinging to your insides. and you’d try anything to right the wrong of what you’ve been dealt, you’d bleed for it; penitence, a brush with grace, are the bones you’re tossed in return for humble sacrifice. and you gnaw out the marrow as if it were the word of g-d, himself. the low rumble of the all-father.

you are unholy and you want to be good, son, so drink. simmer yourself in the searing pain of the cleansing divine and blessed be, hallowed be thy name for the short-term eternal; for the split-second of blitzed agony, knees collapsing, smile spreading and teeth stained red. and when the light leaves your eyes, when the world turns a dull-grey and your guts come crawling up your throat with the dizzy feeling, you will be cast in the pit. all that effort, and you will rot.

you are unholy, boy. it’s not your fault. it’s the way the doctor made you — it’s the hack-job you were born from. no one could've known.