Photo by Denny Müller on Unsplash

She is cool and precise,

a vision of emptiness

swaying gently behind the eyes.

I have seen the whole of her

inside and out.

We are not the same species

so there is nothing to compare.

We each have our someones,

the same someone split in half.

She is a damp, halting apathy,

a pretense, the antithesis to intimacy.

I pity her because she starves.

I pity myself as well.

I am too many things to be exact.

My creatures are all at war.

I am too much. I am all nerve endings.

The funny thing

is that she isn’t even here.

All I ever was, was my devotion

but he kept on dragging her up

from her little coffin

and forcing me to kiss her mouth.

That’s why I ran away with the Devil.

It was only me and the Devil

in that room, on that occasion.

We exchanged hands over tea.

I let him undress me.

My panties were wet.

My lips were red with hunger.

There were three windows and one door.

All closed.

All leading inside.

The Devil took me down to the cellar

and filled me with angel tears

and blasphemous psalms.

He pressed his monstrosity

at the mouth of my abandoned womb

and I forgot all about

the little, half-boy

that sings in a choir.

Is it wrong to say that I love

the tongue that feeds me

more than the smiling mouths

of good people?

Is it wrong to trade my false lover

for a light-extruding myth?

All operas have lost there meaning,

only poetry speaks to me these days.

I may be a pariah

but I don’t want to be alone.

The Devil occupies my thoughts.

He could just as well eat me

but instead he breaks open my bones

with his sinister, seductive laugh.

I am happy

when it is just the two of us.

I am happy to be the bride

of a willing groom.

The Devil doesn’t love her

and that consoles me.

She is too clear for him,

too wrath-like, too fastened.

He loves her

but he doesn’t understand women at all

and he can’t sustain

his own heart for more than a beat.

The Devil doesn’t have

horns or cloven hooves.

He wears a loin cloth,

or a top hat,

or peacock feathers sewn into a dress.

He is not the subject

of any particular book

but his presence regularly

sparks debate.

The Devil is mine and mine alone.

We invented each other.

Sometimes he carries me in his arms

and speaks to me in verbs.

I know what he is capable of

and what he isn’t.

For us there is freedom in union.

For us addiction is a kind of paradise.

I don’t need to excuse myself

for being rotten or ordinary.

I don’t need to apologize

for my vagina.

The Devil gets it.

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