The Want That Doesn’t Repent

Act V — The Echo of Sin

There are desires that apologize,

that shrink back into the dark

after they’ve taken too much.

And then there are desires

that refuse to repent.

The kind that sit in your chest

like a pulse you can’t quiet,

steady, shameless,

alive in a way you wish you weren’t.

You try to starve it.

Ignore it.

Bury it under reason and routine,

under responsibility and daylight.

But some wants

are carved too deeply to erase.

They return in silence—

in the moment before sleep

when your guard drops,

in the tremble you feel

when a memory brushes your skin

like a touch that never fully left.

You know this want.

You know its shape.

Its temperature.

Its gravity.

It isn’t gentle.

It isn’t polite.

It doesn’t care that you’ve tried to be good.

It rises anyway—

slow, certain,

a sin that remembers itself

even when you’re too tired

to remember your own name.

You don’t chase it.

You don’t run from it.

You simply…

feel it.

Alive beneath your ribs.

Burning where your breath stumbles.

Pulling you toward the dark

you thought you outgrew.

There is no apology in this want.

No hesitation.

No remorse.

It exists

because you do.

Because something in you

still hungers,

still remembers,

still aches

for the ruin that made you feel

more alive

than the healing ever did.

This want doesn’t repent.

And the truth is—

you don’t want it to.