HOŁY

Every time I pretend I’m righteous…

I can hear the rot beneath it.

And I keep fucking digging—

hoping there’s a saint under all this ruin.

There isn’t.

I wear morality like a mask soaked in gasoline,

strike a match with every argument

and call the flames pristine.

I’m not defending justice—

I’m defending my reflection,

building holy altars

out of guilt and self-rejection.

I swing “virtue” like a weapon

at anything that moves,

not because I’m noble—

because I need the fucking proof

that I’m worth something

beneath the mess I’ve made,

beneath the failures I baptized,

beneath the love I betrayed.

I’m righteous for the wrong damn reasons,

a saint of self-destruction,

drowning in the praise I crave

but choking on the corruption.

I preach like I’m enlightened

but I’m terrified as hell,

I punish others for their sins

’cause I can’t forgive myself.

Don’t call me holy—

I’m just afraid of who I really am.

I drag myself through burning glass,

call it virtue just to hide my past.

I scream “righteous” with a voice that shakes,

but it’s all self-hate dressed in holy mistakes.

I tear myself down just to feel divine—

bleeding for a god that was never mine.

This halo’s poisoned, fucked, and flawed—

I’m a martyr dying for a made-up god.

I’m the judge, the jury, and the sentence I impose,

executing every failure like it’s poetry I chose.

I demand perfection

from a soul that’s cracked to hell,

I nail myself to crosses

just to say I’m doing well.

I call it discipline—

but it’s torture in disguise.

I call it righteousness—

but it’s ego on the rise.

I’m addicted to the feeling

of dragging myself through flames,

’cause at least the fire numbs

the fucking shame.

I crucify my conscience

for sins I didn’t commit,

I rip open every wound

just to prove I still feel shit.

And when the world applauds me,

I feel even more alone—

another fucking fraud

building kingdoms out of bone.

I don’t want redemption…

I just want the pain to mean something.

I drag myself through burning glass,

call it virtue just to hide my past.

I scream “righteous” with a voice that shakes,

but it’s all self-hate dressed in holy mistakes.

I tear myself down just to feel divine—

bleeding for a god that was never mine.

This halo’s poisoned, fucked, and flawed—

I’m a martyr dying for a made-up god.

Truth is?

I don’t want salvation.

I want punishment

that feels like purpose.

Strip the virtue—

I was never clean.

Strip the purpose—

I don’t know what I mean.

BREAK.

THE.

SOUL—

I’M NOT HOLY, I’M JUST HURT.

BREAK.

THE.

SELF—

BURN ME LOWER THAN THE DIRT.

I drag myself through burning glass,

call it virtue just to hide my past.

I scream “righteous” with a voice that shakes,

but it’s all self-hate dressed in holy mistakes.

I tear myself down just to feel divine—

bleeding for a god that was never mine.

This halo’s poisoned, fucked, and flawed—

I’m a martyr dying for a made-up god.

hmmmmm