C O R R U P T E D
I used to be pure.
I used to be right and good and untouched and unmarred and unwronged and unspoiled and pure. You destroyed that me. You shattered that me. You corrupted that me.
I used to kneel at the gods' shrine every morning and offer up my prayers. My small, quiet prayers, seeking only for the better of my country. They were unselfish prayers. When you came I started begging for salvation. I started thinking about me, and worrying about the wrong that would befall me, and concerning myself less and less with what I should have been thinking about. You would consume me, I feared. You would do exactly as you did.
So I prayed. But you'd always linger on the fringe and catch the words before they left me, steal my lips and my mouth and my senses with a kiss.
Stealing. That's what you do. That's all you do. It's wrong. I know it's wrong, but I can't bring myself to stop you. Especially when it's me. When it's my lips and my body and my wits and my me. You've taken away what I wanted to be, and given me what I am now.
Not give. Left me with. This faithless, corrupt husk of humanity, capable of little on my own and less with you around.
I don't think I'll ever forgive you those stolen prayers. I don't think I can. They took too much away from me.
You took too much.