That sin feels like I am walking on fire

Ink has been scribbled, the pages have been irreparably stained. And now these three pieces torn from my notebook are burning a hole in my hand. Yearning equally to destroy or send them, I can’t seem to bring myself to do either.

Rip them apart before they get the chance to rip something else apart - that’s what I ought to do. Tear through the delicate fibers and rid myself of the temptation to deliver them. But the more I try to convince myself, the more tightly my fingers clutch the paper. The least I manage to do is resist the urge to use my other hand to grope a bottle of wine - I don’t want it to make this decision for me.

Grief of loss coupled with overindulgence in alcohol is a surefire recipe for insurmountable longing. It’s the rationalization I arm myself with as I try to talk myself out of making what most certainly must be a bad choice. I believe I’m trying to do what’s right, but is it misguided of me to think that I know what is best for someone else?