I am not Mary.
Nor the woman who anointed His feet.
Nor the one who wept beneath the cross.
I am Judas.
Instead of a kiss upon the cheek,
my betrayal
was the quiet abandonment of myself.
It was silence.
It was every moment I felt Him near
and still chose something else.
Fragments of artificial peace.
A safety that never nourishes.
The familiar road instead of the living one.
I sold my soul piece by piece,
but instead of silver,
I asked for people’s approval.
An empty “well done.”
One day without feeling inadequate.
I was there at the table,
my hand breaking His bread,
while my heart was already somewhere else.
My heart had turned opaque.
My will had been broken.
My mask was still smiling.
I don’t know whom I betrayed first:
Him, or myself.
I don’t even know if I wanted to sell Him,
or if I simply forgot how to remain
in love,
in truth,
in a tenderness that asks for nothing
and yet asks for everything.
I wish I could tell Him I’m sorry.
But what I feel is deeper than regret.
It is a hollow in my stomach that nothing can fill,
and a guilt that would not fall silent,
not even if forgiveness came.
I am a dark room
where I lock myself in
from the inside.
I am Judas
every day I choose comfort and fear instead of faith.
In every lie I tell myself.
In every
“I’ll handle it on my own.”
In every retreat from love
because I am afraid
to be seen completely.
And I know…
I know that if I looked into His eyes,
He would still love me.
Even like this.
But sometimes His love hurts more than the cross,
because it is too pure,
too good,
too true.
And I…
I still don’t always know
how to receive it
without breaking apart.
So I pray
that I will stop running,
stop selling myself,
stop hiding in the night.
That I may let Love
reach
even the Judas within me.