Through the Redwood Lattice

I speak to you, robes of white with crimson grace.
I’ve never confessed—though this feels more like a
Suicide note than a confession.

Nothing is enough.
If success feels like failure (and failure like death)
Then glory is merely damnation
And no amount of blood will save me.

It all hurts. Love,
Camaraderie, comparison, competition,
I am still broken in entirety and entirely alone.
Damn my pride and damn my guilt.
I deserve the destruction foaming in my wake.

Hate is overpowering.
If only the greater peace
I beg to preach, could find a smaller home in my heart.
Answer be: we cannot be both great and small
And in my growth, I feel smaller than
Ever. What is the world? Will it remember me?