the devil writes in purple glitter pen and has an itch beneath his skin.
he kisses others
with blood on his lips
because he bit his mouth until it was red enough,
pinched his cheeks until the color came flooding in.
except the devil does not go by “he.” the devil goes by “she.”
the devil is probably not much taller than you are;
she may even be shorter.
she doesn’t watch you at the foot of the bed,
but curls up next to you
in a sweaty summertime tangle of limbs.
her hips sway
when she walks down the hallway.
you are not frightened when she winks at you.
you should be.
when you curse the devil,
her eyes are downcast.
she waits by the bus stop
soaked to the bone,
just begging for you to share your umbrella with her.
(the devil is a damsel tied to a bomb
she never told you she built.
your sword happens to be perfect
for slicing through those ropes.)
you expect her to shoo you away or give you a frosty glare when you sit down next to her,
but she takes off her headphones to say hello.
it’s only ladylike.
the devil’s lips are warm and her heart is cold.
the devil’s love song is for the rest of her kind;
it was never for you.
the devil’s love song || caroline m.