Crucifixion

Execute the sentence. Bind these unworthy hands to the coarse wood; this is my altar of deserved agony. There is no celestial compass, no cosmic geography, only the internal, suffocating theater where the fires of hell and the vacant silence of heaven eternally conflict. I am the exiled shadow, cast out by my own moral gravity.

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I am not merely an ocean; I am the abyssal heart of the sea itself. A black, churning void where a sunken world of despair perpetually drowns. There is no chart, no canon of rules, strong enough to salvage this wreckage; I am the terminal loss. All that remains is the ghost of a former self, a waterlogged coffin ship adrift in the deep. We did not just watch the end; we became the wave that consumed it.

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I have not just witnessed hell; I am its cartographer, an unwilling resident of its volcanic core. Heaven? It exists only as a myth whispered to keep the sane from screaming, a secret I guard with a zealous, bitter despair.

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Turn back, let the breath fail. The relentless current of damnation is a living, devouring force, and your attempt at rescue is a death warrant. If you must expend energy, steal a breath for me, for the lungs I no longer deserve to use.

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Should this agonizing night somehow fracture into a dawn, should the impossible flicker of life survive, then mercy is the final casualty. Do not waste your hope on me. Your promise of salvation is a cruel joke, for the depths have already claimed me entirely. I am too perfectly, irrevocably gone. The only prayer left is for those already rendered senseless by their own darkness: Pray for the dead.