I’ve Given Up Pretending by Redireintenebras

I’ve given up pretending to be good. The pale Christ, his cruel father, and their fluttering dove mean nothing to me now. I’ve tasted what the Dark Lord offers — lust, power, abandon — and it runs through me like fire.

Still, sometimes, something claws at me. A faint whisper, a nagging guilt, like that dove scratching at the edges of my mind. In those moments, I almost convince myself to strip away the rituals, the images, the pleasures, as if denying myself could make me a better husband, a cleaner man. But it’s not virtue — it’s poison, guilt still rotting in my blood.

For a little while, I manage. I go numb, I keep busy, I pretend. But then it begins again: the ache in my chest, the heat in my skin, the stirring low in my body. Satan calls, and the hunger unfurls inside me like smoke, like claws dragging down my spine. Before long, I’m back — devouring the words, the visions, the sensations that awaken every nerve, every dark corner of me.

This cycle keeps repeating, but each time it feels less like weakness and more like initiation. Each return strips away another layer of shame, another thread of false holiness. Every fall back into lust feels like surrender, and every surrender feels like home. Soon, I know, I won’t resist at all. I’ll give myself over fully, with no hesitation, no guilt — only the thrill of being exactly what I am: devoted, hungry, and forever bound to the darkness that owns me.