The heathen.

I see a wretch.
The wretch who stole Vicodin from the medicine cabinet.
The villain who unleashed anger on the undeserving.
The dog that bites the mouth that feeds it.
The outcast to his former friends.
The knave that robbed women of their virtue.
The assassin that killed the spirit of God within him.
The reckless young man, mixing substances.
The Vagabond in the van.
The nihilist who sees no purpose in any life.
The junkie who would sell his brothers for another fix.
The black sheep who rebukes himself.
The butcher to his own living hide.
The furnace of unrelenting desire and lust.
The drunk at the side of the highway.
The lepper cast far away.
The Undertaker preparing his soul for hell.
The dissenter to his faith.
The skinwalker under the moon.
The false prophet.

Whether its the false woman's touch, the relief of letting my crimson humours balance, the Eagles burning through my lungs, or the ethanol on my breath, vice will always have its grip on my hands.

Loyalty: When she says to drink the hemlock, drink it.

My heart beats, I know this, I'm just unsure that it matters.

I've never, not even once, been told I was a good person.

Not from others...

but certainly not from myself.

No lack of esteem.

Just the quiet realization that repentance is just another word that doesn't change anything.