Prayer for the Weary

Dear God,

I have come to the conclusion that I'm a fucking cliche...

Even my imperfect bouts of melancholy, which I fancy poetic, are cliche. I do it for vanity, and it is my vanity that makes me sick. I'm such a terrible person. I cannot blind myself from it any longer and maybe writing it down here is the first step. Confession. I both love and hate confession. It's like picking my own scab and enjoying it bleed. But confession, like humility, is good for the soul.

I'm a fake.
I'm a liar (and I despise liars more than all the sin in this word).
I'm cheap at most.

I am irrevocably defeated. I am stabbed by the sharpest scalpel of self-evaluation and no inkling, but be it divine, can convince me of my worth.

But time goes on, and so must I. Tomorrow is another day, and our lives can change with each breath. So all I can do is hope for some change, and use it to make myself better.

I'll get better because simply put, I have to.

Amen