Description

The Second Tread from “Had to Let Go” (Poem):
“The Stain of Desire”

All the bloodstains on me came from lustful desires in human form.” These words linger like an echo from a battlefield I never chose but couldn’t avoid. The marks I carry aren’t from battles with others—no swords or fists left these scars. They’re from wars within, silent clashes where my own soul was both the arena and the prize. Lust, cloaked in human guise, slipped into my life with a deceptive warmth, leaving its red imprint on my spirit—a reminder of urges I couldn’t ignore, no matter how I tried.

It’s easy to think of lust as mere physical craving, a fleeting itch of the flesh. But that’s too simple. For me, it was more—a hunger that gnawed deeper than skin, reaching for control, validation, and the quick, hollow pleasures that shimmer like mirages. These human struggles weren’t noble; they were messy, primal, and all too real. Lust wasn’t just a woman’s glance or a whispered promise—it was the voice in my head demanding more, convincing me that satisfaction lay just beyond the next indulgence. And with every step I took toward it, the bloodstains spread, marking me as theirs.

Plato understood this better than most. He described the soul as a chariot, pulled by two horses—one noble, striving for wisdom, and the other wild, driven by base desires. I let the wild horse run too long, reins slack, hooves pounding through my days. Desire and the soul tangled in a dance I didn’t know how to stop—lust pulling me one way, reason straining against the tide. The stains piled up, each one a testament to moments I chased what promised joy but delivered chains instead. Freedom, I learned, isn’t found in giving in—it’s forged in the fight to pull back.

Overcoming lust isn’t a clean victory. It’s not a single swing of the sword that ends the war. It’s a slow unraveling, a recognition of what those stains mean. They’re evidence of a past self, one tethered to wants that glittered like gold but weighed like iron. I see them now not as badges of shame but as maps of where I’ve been—each red mark a lesson carved into my being. Lust in human form wasn’t an enemy I could banish outright; it was a mirror, showing me the parts of myself I’d rather hide.

The stains linger because memory does. They’re not fresh wounds anymore, but they don’t fade entirely—nor should they. They remind me of the cost of letting desire rule unchecked, of the chains I wore before I knew I could break them. Human struggles like these aren’t unique to me; they’re threads in the tapestry of existence, woven into every soul that’s ever yearned. The philosopher’s chariot still rides, and we all wrestle with its reins at some point.

So I turn the question to you: What stains linger on your own soul? What desires have left their mark, red and raw, on the fabric of who you are? Desire and the soul are bound together, not as enemies but as partners in a tense, eternal negotiation. Overcoming lust doesn’t erase the stains—it redeems them, turning battle scars into signs of survival. Look at your own hands, your own heart. The bloodstains tell a story. What’s yours?