There is a child, wearing my clothes, and my skin, and my scent, but isn't me. Sin is like ink, it bleeds into a person, coloring, making you someone other than you used to be. And it's indelible. Try as hard as you like, you can never get yourself back.
Words can't pull me back from the edge. Neither can daylight. This isn't something to get over, it is an atmosphere I need to learn to breath, grow gills for transgression, and take it into my lungs with every gasp.
It is a startling thing. I wonder who this person is, going through the motions of my life. I want to take their hand, comfort them.
And then I want to push this stranger, hard, off a cliff.