There are some of us that turn to the devil for absolution. The woman made of flesh, whose needs are never met, hates the golden white spotless wings of light and purity. She doesn't trust them. Her wants burn her so far beneath the surface that she feels as if the fire will scorch the walls around her. Her body wants to be held down. Her body aches to be enveloped while her soul rises to power. A perfect moment of greed. Bring the ropes and tie her down while her soul vanishes into the air to collect all of your dripping sweat. Your blood. Your energy. She keeps it. She inhales the smell of your heartbeat and she keeps it. She goes home letting you feel victory, but she owns you. While she sits in her darkened tomb, her shrine to loneliness, she can feel you moving. She knows when you think of her. She has a part of you. She holds the power to watch you. In the darkness she can still feel you. It is what keeps her sane. Her wants scratch her insides until she feels as if she must be bleeding. So she makes herself bleed. She makes herself ache. Her feet pound the pavement until her breath is gone and the tears finally drop. The pavement has mercy. A reliable friend who pounds against her every bone, reminding her that she is breakable. And how she wants to be broken. So enter the devil. A beautiful creature that is ambivalent to the pain. She wraps herself in him because she has already been through hell. What's he going to do kill her? She would go willingly with him. He would break her. Break her so hard that she becomes numb. Finally a man that can make her quiet. A man that can keep her quiet.A man who reads her sins like poetry. He sees them all now as she lay filleted on the pavement. She stares at the sun as her sins flow. The secrets run down her legs. The shame drips off of her fingernails. The blood that she took which never belonged to her, rises in a holy display of love. And the devil stands. And the devil kneels. And the devil holds. And the devil forgives. Because those who live without sin can never see the unfilled chasm in a woman. Those without sin can never judge, and without judgement, she is just another water filled, vile, grotesque idea in someone else's head. Sometimes the only way back to G-d is the path that the devil used when he left. A well worn path. Perfect and clear. Shiny and sunny. He takes more souls back to G-d than any street preacher, and right now she needs led back. So she prays to the dark one. She feels his fingers wrapped in her hair. So unlike any man. Able to read her thoughts, and her wants. And he pulls her hair and he breathes in her heartbeat, and she belongs to him. He can feel her move. He can watch her in the dark. He keeps her. He bandages her. He owns her. She is put back together. Sewn shut. Scars showing. Unashamed because she lived. And life is about nothing but the blood and the feelings. So she comes into her new self with a little more light and a little more laughter. He watches. He hates this part. Watching the fallen rise. It's his only job. He takes the blame of dragging her down and raping her. He takes the blame for her self harm. He takes the blame for the drugs that she has to take to keep from letting her exhausted body gently fly off of a bridge. Her choices. Her sins. And he will carry them now for her. He will walk her up the path to the gates. He will look G-d in the face as co-workers do. He will deliver the broken goods and collect a bill of sale for a soul that is worn and vibrant and cloaked in the darkest red armor he could find for her.
And he will sleep at the gate. And he will hold her memory. He will feel her last breathes. He will write her name on his arm alongside the others. Only the dark can see in the dark. Only the hurt can offset the hurt. Only the wicked can can dive deep enough into the pool to rescue the ones who just want to die. Only the devil knows the path back to the gate. And the devil will let me do it
