These hands are blackened like torchwood.
Dusty and dipped in blood.
My sins are words and thoughts pounding at my soul.
Who you are?
My love, I love you.
Who am I?
Not worthy.
The mirror was never so broken and so beautiful as when I saw the reflection of my own blue eye.
I cannot save myself, I am too afraid, I am too ugly.
My soul is full of something dirty that I cannot wash away.
It clings like oil, black and burnt, to my skin.
Can I be forgiven?
For I cannot even stand the flame of a candle, how will I stand the flames of hell?
How am I different, how am I better?
I am not. That is the simple answer.
What do I want? I want you.
Why?
Power.
What do I want?
I want to change.