This is for all the times my body was bruised and knocked down, and not even the sound of thunder could move an inch of me.
This is for all the times I failed to see the light when it was clearly daytime outside. And all the times it didn't matter if there was any pulse left in me.
It was scary. It was scary to look at the size of my body, and see how small I am; how no part of the world could fit me perfectly like a sweater.
It was scary, trying to create distances out of every breath I took because there was never enough air to keep me here, and my insides were always crowded.
I am no saint. I made poetry out of blood and romance out of smoke and jokes out of delicacy.
I am a killer in disguise. For myself I have murdered, a hundred times over.
And I, like any other sinner, always had my reasons.
But no apology is ever sincere when actions are striven to be justified.
And then one day, at what seemed like the break of dawn, I stopped swallowing the words I threw like knives at my being.
One day, I threw them all up.
See, before what I thought was my last breath, I fought. I fought like the devil.
I am no saint. I make peace with my ugliness now. I wear it like my favorite sweater, and it fits me perfectly.
I am no saint. I no longer cringe at the cracking of my own voice. I learn to love it.
I am no saint. I look my fear in the eye, like a good ol' warrior.
I am a sinner. I put my pieces back with glue, and never look back.
I am a sinner. I chase death until it's worn out.
I am a sinner, with no shame. Because I now love myself unconditionally, with just enough strength to drink all my past sins in, and carry on.
Because who said I was made to be anything less than the universe anyway?
