I have committed my share of sins, most just average ran-the-stop-sign-when-no-one-was-looking kind of sins. I’m only human after all. But I’ve done things far worse when the devil inside stole the keys to my morality and went for a joyride through the manic world, speeding and skidding through kaleidoscopic streets and dimly lit alleyways slippery with alcohol and regret. Each time my conscience was towed back with scratched paint, a smoking engine, and shredded tires. The guilt dented my soul, left me damaged in ways I couldn’t fix. I wish there were penance enough to salvage grace from the wreckage, but we all lose value once driven off the lot.
Lisa L. Weber is a writer living in San Diego. Her thoughts and feelings have been published online at Anti-Heroin Chic, The Ginger Collect, Rag Queen Periodical, Burning House Press, Rabid Oak, Rose Quartz Journal, and Bone & Ink Press.