Welcome, M., J. Wilder!

Subliminal Temptress
By MJ Wilder

I repent for that which I have sinned. In thoughts --in words --in what I have done --most of all; what I have failed to do. I cannot begin to describe the predicament that has befallen me. How did I get here? Why? Oh why? I ask the sky, do you no longer shine? My night overwhelms you. It surrounds; it consumes: it eats you alive. And in a twisting, turning, churning, whirling, daze I lay down my head to rest. But I feel no ground. No body beneath me; no organs within me; no pulse to give me rhythm. And with hands outstretched, questions become scratched into my skin. I can't even feel. It is like floating; it is like flying; when you lose your mind. With a whispering voice it cuts at you and echoes around, until there is nothing left but marrow. "Stop, oh please just stop!" I beg, I plead. "But there is no one there... It is just me... me... me..." talking to myself, in my head. And you whisper replies: things I never dreamed of. Things that were impossible, beyond compare, perpendicular to reality –no, to possibility! I see now, for you have taught me, the fear of loss overwhelms me; my own mind is against me! Especially when that which I fear to lose is lost and gone never to return: down down the wishing well, etched in the stone of my memoirs. I feel what I have, mistakenly, done onto Thee hast set a karma; overcome now, by a towering omen which I must atone to and revise. But I cannot turn the pages! I can't even see them –just a ribbon (crimson) making me bask alone in remembrance of what it holds.
Oh please oh please, believe me. I repent for that which I have sinned! For one of mine is of vanity; --of lustful guile, with anger and hunger, for the thirst that never leaves me. Thirst for things that don't belong to me. --Of envy. In anger, I beseech thee! Flee! But wait! Stop, I have no attraction to that which I have done! --No, I mean to harm! --Ah! Not arms, I don't want to harm! Oh, can't they see? Opposite fires roar inside me (like the very fields that shield Ye from crimson rays). Equally, without reason or purpose, I continue on. The tingle of hunger: emulating butterflies that brush me inside. It drives me, It thrives in me. With the same, a passion for sight; to pour myself upon femininity. Oh, it heals me; rushes within me. I fell... purified, but as if only satisfied by hidden salts in her nectar, it is just of a little while. Ever hungry, wary of its impurities, yet unable to stop myself from reaching out. To take (what I feel), for some reason, should be mine. --To steal --to feel --to be evil. I cry to the sky, oh why? Do I really want this life? Oh 'yes and no''s and vetoes; reelections echo in mono tonal reply. And for that very reason: for not filling the purpose --of deciding; --of deporting the demons within me. I am sloth, look me in my eyes: Do Ye not see the emerald abyss? Be Thee but blind to the monster in my sky? It sits before you! I beg Thee, use your eyes! Why can't you see the lies? I have been pathologically screaming, "Love me, look who I am." But it is something I could never be. And they should be able to see! I am nothing but a Serpent of a man. Yes, I repent for that which I have sinned. But the dawn is a new tomorrow, and I still yet stand. As ally, to that of who I was, who I am, and who I will always be.
What is my sin? It is, inevitably, ability.