Poetry for the Devil.


4. try me


I have watched humans evolve from filthy, rotten, disgusting bacteria that dragged their trembling bodies through the dirt and mud. I have seen worlds collide and planets form from pieces of dead rock floating through space. I have watched people tear themselves apart just to offer their broken bodies to others, and watched as sweethearts sink blades into their loved ones' backs.

I was the girl with blue hair smoking cigarettes in the back alley behind the club, and the man who threw himself and his faux leather briefcase off the edge of the bridge. I was the kid with the indigo-coloured bruise on their shoulder and the parent who put put it there. I was alive to witness civilisations grow and die, the smell of blood and ink and revolution still fresh upon my senses.

So go ahead and try me, maestro. String me up and play me like one of your violins, pluck me until the music that courses through my veins runs dry. I'll cry tears of blood and paint that drip onto canvases and work their way into art. I'll grow flowers in my heart for the hole you carved for yourself and dig you a shiny new grave beside the headstone marked with my name. I'll spew up the stars for you and splutter words of wonder with my last gasping breath, because my body and my soul mean nothing if they're not bound to you like a suitcase or a piece of meat.

I've picked myself up and sewn the bloody remains of my body back together before, maestro, and I'll do it again. All you have to do is play, my darling, and I'll dance.

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