the devil finds me on the side of the highway with a purple dress and a backpack full of bad intentions. my mouth is bloody and my heels are breaking. he says he doesn’t know what to think about hands like mine.

it gets darker and warmer and i feel like the constellations are tearing themselves apart. we dance all night and my mother calls me little blasphemy but i don’t listen anymore.

in the morning i say i want to get better but he says i feel like home. want is an ugly word for girls like me.

—  GOD, FORSAKEN (ii) || s.o.