I have a devil's spawn scratching in my head, whispering murders. This one doesn't wear prada, no. He parades in cloaked darkness. His footsteps match the ticking of the clock, as I wait for another possession.
He plucks verses, like weeds, making bed for more gruesome intentions. It's midnight and he craves nightmares. As if on cue, I find myself tangled in a web of memories I've tried to get rid of.
He never sins, rather bejewels mine. He has never been to hell, so he crowns himself king of my darkness. He isn't a fallen angel, rather a manifestation knocking on my door.
Humming catastrophe, he waits for my weakest moments and gifts me nyctophilia wrapped like a candy, which I devour on days the sky turns sombre. He calls it an aphrodisiac kiss.
On nights when he let's me breathe I ask him how long he wishes to stay. His face lights up with a boyish charm and a devilish glint in his eyes. He strokes my hair softly, and murmurs, 'as long as you keep coming back to this hell. '