Temple

Counting every blessing in a plate half-full,

Fasting like the saints, though it’s not spiritual.

Numbers are gospel, my cross to bear,

Purity’s a prayer whispered in despair.

In the mirror, I see a holy war,

Between my flesh and the spirit’s core.

Every ache feels like I’m sanctified,

A sacrifice where I can’t confide.

My body is a temple, I’m just cleaning it,

Stripping away the sins that don’t fit.

Every hunger, every crack feels divine,

A penance carved in this body of mine.

My body is a temple, I’m just cleaning it.

Kneeling at the altar of control,

Offering penance for what I stole.

Bread of life feels heavy in my hands,

Breaking it down like shifting sands.

I’m a martyr in this holy fast,

Praying my suffering will save me at last.

Every rib feels like a rosary bead,

Counting my worth in the pain I feed.

My body is a temple, I’m just cleaning it,

Stripping away the sins that don’t fit.

Every hunger, every crack feels divine,

A penance carved in this body of mine.

My body is a temple, I’m just cleaning it.

The temple quakes, the foundation bends,

Grace feels distant, redemption pretends.

Crown of thorns pressed into my skin,

But where’s the salvation in this discipline?

My body is a temple, I’m just cleaning it,

But the cracks run deeper than I admit.

Every hunger, every crack feels divine,

But I’m breaking down inside this shrine.

My body is a temple, I’m just cleaning it.

The temple’s empty, the echoes fade,

A hollow shrine to the choices I made.

The bread of life turns to ash on my lips,

My body is a temple, I’m losing my grip.