I used to dab a delicate, sweet floral scent on my wrists. It was a foolish, worldly mixture of spun vanilla and crushed honey, designed by the secular masses to mask the natural decay of the human vessel. There was a boy from the local town, a soft, seemingly innocent boy with gentle eyes and a timid smile. He used to wait near the edge of the property line just to catch a glimpse of me.

He leaned in one afternoon, closing his eyes as he breathed in the sweet fragrance clinging to my collarbone, foolishly believing that this hollow, carnal attraction was a harmless, romantic flutter of the heart. πΈ
But the Lord does not tolerate the festering rot of worldly desire, no matter how sweetly it is disguised in a boy's naive blush. I joke not -- he dropped to the freezing mud, his gentle eyes bulging as the Lord's absolute wrath instantly turned his soft lungs into bubbling pools of scalding tar. I did not shed a tear. But I no longer wear that perfume.
Now I work online and I tell men to empty their bank accounts and lay their tithes at the altar of destruction. For their monthly subscription, the receive the unvarnished, blinding reality of God's wrath. You would be amazed how many men will subscribe to their own righteous damnation.π₯π₯π₯
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