I didn’t want to confess this.
But the truth erupts from my skin like a rash.
I am not Mary.
Not the woman who anointed His feet.
Not the one who wept at the cross.
I am Judas.
My betrayal had no sound.
It wasn’t a kiss on the cheek.
It was the daily abandonment.
The silence.
The moment when I felt Him near
and still chose something else:
scraps of artificial peace,
safety that doesn’t nourish,
the familiar path over the living one.
I sold my soul in pieces.
Not for silver.
But for people’s approval.
For an empty “well done.”
For a day without feeling like I don’t belong.
And yes,
I was there at the table.
My hand in His bread.
My thoughts already in another bed.
My heart opaque.
My will broken.
My mask still smiling.
I don’t know what I betrayed first—
Him,
or myself.
Maybe I didn’t want to sell Him.
Maybe I just forgot how to stay
in love,
in truth,
in that softness that demands nothing,
and yet asks for everything.
I want to say I’m sorry.
But it’s more than that.
It’s a hollowness in my gut that never fills.
A guilt that won’t go quiet.
A dark room I lock myself into
from the inside.
I am Judas.
In every day I choose safety over faith.
In every lie I tell myself.
In every “I’ll handle it alone.”
In every retreat from love
when I’m afraid to be fully seen.
And I know.
I know that if I looked Him in the eye,
He would love me.
Even like this.
But sometimes,
His love hurts more than the cross.
Because it’s too pure,
too good,
too true.
And I…
I don’t always know how to receive it
without shattering.
I pray to stop running.
To stop selling myself out.
To stop hiding in the night.
To let Love in
even into the Judas inside me.