I was reminded of imperfection
as I once more dipped the blade
into a careful pile of sugar and shame
cutting myself down,
cutting myself open,
filling in with sex and
abandon and
dark.

Curse the eternal lure of chaos.
Curse my bacchanalian disposition
and my Caligula-like
appetites.

It isn't the sin
and it isn't the flesh,
its the void.
Its the comfort in depth and freedom from form
to answer to nothing and,
going forth in wild spirit,
to burst the moral dam.

But we were sent from the Garden for
reasons such as this
and though the snake coils round our fingers,
we must maintain our conviction.

A child's unprovable hope
that there is a brighter
and comforting life
beyond.