Hope On The Floor

I feel so dirty, so lost in time. The lies I said just hours ago, melted into fake acts that are marred to my skin. I've lost count of how many times—five or so—that I let my heart die so my sin can be released. As always, I lie on the floor. I stare at the ceiling and pray that this won't be the day that I die of my own treacherous blood. But I've broken so many pacts; so many rules . . . I think it would be deserving to let my soul wither and die as the tears leave my tainted eyes. And this is how it goes. "Let me survive, God. I'll never do it again," I mutter as I struggle to move. I know he won't listen, I've weaseled my way out of my promises before; but still, I cling to flashes of hope. I wonder if when I move from this filthy floor, will my hope be left with the crying ghost of my innocence?