I feel like the worst wife to my God. Always whining, always complaining, never satisfied. Wanting to make amends, but theres nothing I can do to tend to such a fantastical creature. What is a grain of sand to his hands that comfort me into the torrid night? What value can He find in me, and yet he deals with my ceaseless wailing all til the morn? What a wretch I must be in his mind's eyes... And yet here still I am cradled to his warmth that gives life to all. I have nothing left to give but my essence, my being, yet even my core is tainted beyond all relief. Each trifling day, each restless night, the same words are whispered to my heart... "I am sufficient."
Maybe I'm simply a fool caught up in the ideals of love, fearful of letting my heart flutter for my God's truth. I know not where I stand lest it might be my own precipices of insanity and loneliness. I am beyond shameful in my Lord's eyes, yet no sponge, no amalgamation of a plant's blood could wash away my wretchedness.
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