In this hollow cathedral of silence, I kneel before the echo of my own name. The candles have long since died, their wax frozen mid-tear upon the altar. No one comes here. No footsteps cross this floor but mine. I am the priest and the sinner, confessing to walls that will never forgive. They say the heart mends — but mine decayed in place, a reliquary of memories and whispers that bite through the dark. The world forgets with frightening ease. No messages, no knocks, only the hum of the void and the voice that curls behind my ribs — the one that murmurs end it, end it, end it. I long for arms to fall into, a chest to shatter against, a heartbeat that says stay. But all I have is the warmth of the shower, its crimson drain, and the illusion of being held. The water baptizes me nightly, but I do not rise anew — I drown slower, softer, as if the divine has turned its face away. To speak the truth would horrify them — to say I wish to die, that the light has abandoned me. So I smile, a cracked statue among the living, carved from grief, kept alive by spite and habit. If there is salvation, it must dwell in ruin — for only the broken seem to know how to pray.