Poetry for the Devil.


5. dysmorphia


I have blood on my lips 

and sinew sewn to my teeth

shining pink and a new kind of heartless 

as I smile; so cold. 


my teeth are blacker than my soul,

peeling and rotten to the core

the devil trapped inside the bones

resting against the roof of my mouth.


nails like spikes rutting against your skin,

scratching love hearts into your collarbone 

and painting portraits of your sleeping body

in the blood from your wrists.


my skin is rotting and raw,

bubbling like blown glass against my veins

and stretching tight over bone marrow

whenever you look my way.


when the creature inside me 

awakens and works itself to a bloody pulp,

carving ancient latin into my rotten bones

and smiling with white eyes,


when it wraps tornadoes around its finger 

and swallows lightning bolts straight from the sky,

when it leaves kiss-shaped bruises on my skin

and cracks my back for fun,


when I am horrible and terrifying,

when my friends whisper monster through blue lips,

when I am truly unlovable, 

you love me anyway.

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