Am I so unworthy or are their hands just *****?

--
Hymn (Whispered):
Take my hands, break my name,
shape me into something tame.
Hollow me and call it grace—
just don’t let me go to waste.
--

I come not to pray,
but to become the prayer.
To strip the flesh
from this tired form
and offer it—bleeding, trembling—
on whatever altar will take me.
Call it sacrifice.
Call it madness.
Call it love.
All I’ve ever wanted
was to be worthy of something.
So I kneel.
To nothing.
To everything.
To the weight of silence
where a god should be.

--
Hymn (Sung soft):
Light me up, let me burn,
give me pain that I can earn.
Bury me where saints once cried—
make me holy when I die.
--

I fast from joy.
I purge my voice.
I pour myself into the mold of what you want
until I am hollow and holy,
and still—
you do not answer.
Tell me what to become.
A vessel?
An echo?
A thing to be used,
discarded,
but never adored?

--
Hymn (Harsher, trembling):
I am ash, I am dust,
build me new if you must.
Bind my bones, make me small,
but let me matter—let me fall.
--
I will bind myself to devotion
if it means being seen.
I will twist each rib into an offering bowl
and fill it with obedience,
with quiet,
with pain wrapped in velvet.
Make me sacred,
even if it hurts.
No—
especially if it hurts.
Because somewhere along the way,
I learned that suffering is closer to love
than peace has ever been.

--
Hymn (Barely a whisper):
Break me down, take what’s left,
whisper mercy into death.
Paint my name in wax and bone—
don’t leave me in the dark alone.
--

If there's a guidebook
on how to earn a place in this world—
then show me the first page.
I will carve its words into my skin
until I am scripture.
Until I am worthy.
I was never the favorite.
Never the chosen.
I’ve always been the shadow behind the flame,
the handmaid to someone else’s joy.
Unseen.
Unheld.
Unwanted.
--
Hymn (Fading chant):
Let me serve, let me stay,
take the light and walk away.
I’ll keep the cold, I’ll hold the night—
just leave me with a flicker of light.
--
But I learned how to serve.
To hold the pain of others
in a chalice carved from my own bones.
To carry their weight
as penance for simply existing.
And still—
I ask:
What more must I give?
I’ve torn out my name.
I’ve rewritten myself in silence.
I’ve given you my ribs as scaffolding,
my soul as tapestry,
my spine as ladder.
Yet you do not climb.
Each failure
becomes a hymn I sing through gritted teeth.
Each rejection,
a relic I wear like armor.
I don’t want worship.
I just want to matter.

--
Final Hymn (Broken, final breath):
If I fade, if I fall,
etch my worth into the wall.
Let them know I tried to be—
even if it wasn’t me.
--

So if I must be a martyr,
let it mean something.
If I must be broken,
let the cracks glow.
And if I was never meant
to be enough—