Made

I was made to love
and be loved deeply,
exquisitely, intimately,
gently, kindly, warmly,
wholly, and holy.
Continually settling for less,
faking contentment is unbearable.
Why should I choose to be content
in a situation that pains God?
I chose this for myself,
for the me that craves intimacy
to the point of dying,
the me that says,
"Don't worry about it girl,
that won't hurt you."
Disregarding many of my vulnerabilities,
I continue listening to the nagging voice
of my vice, seeker of my demise.
Is there an end to this cycle?