In your darkened halls
of a million brilliant lights,
my blood-soaked clothes tell you
all that you want to know or not.
I kneel and pray,
but my stained soul doesn’t deserve your grace,
with hands brown, pale, black with soot
and reddened with another life.
My scream is drowned out
by my own cry for help.
I have been at war with myself,
and have killed, maimed and tortured,
all because I loved another.
But that is all I did, I loved,
but I guess if the stringent criteria
specified are not met,
loving is a sin.

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