Once I let a person into my life and

I get to know them, 

I start to fall in love with them.

Not in a romantic date or marry me sense,

but the kind of love where you fall in love

with your best friend, bits by bits,

pieces by pieces of who they are. 

I start to see the world in their eyes

and I become an explorer, wanting

to travel the length of their mind

and discover forbidden memories

and hidden secrets. I begin to lose

myself in the compass of their heart

and the terrain of their soul.

We must learn to 

love ourselves, so 

no one can hurt us 

and make us feel 

unworthy of love 

so tender, it hurts

to be touched.

And I slept so that they could wake.

And I fasted so that they could eat.

And I ran so that they could walk.

And I stayed silent so that they could talk. 

And I died so they can live.

And now I fall so that they can fly.

Black

Means darkness

Evil

Funerals and deathbeds

Black

Is the color of the night

Where demons lure in eternal shadows

In darkened alleys

Nothing good can come from black

But White

White

Means purity

Goodness

Peace and harmony

White

Is Heaven

Cherubic faces of innocence and joy

Where happiness frolics in fields of daisies

We were brainwashed from a young age

Racism was present since grade school

When you see

black

You think

bad

When you see

white

You think

good

Yet these colors have so much more meaning

Than simply

Black and White

Today in my humanities class, my teacher asked us what the most difficult thing in life is and various responses were spoken around the room as I blacked everyone out and thought. I was no longer in my body, but outside of it as I watched everyone interact and communicate, sharing their beliefs and principles. But they were all wrong. The most difficult thing in life is living and having the ability to breathe even when one

wishes not to. Because when you're dead, all your problems disappear and vanish as our bodies stop functioning. The voices inside our heads are finally silent. Even though our hair will continue to grow after a month of our pronounced deaths, we will not be aware of this growing process. We will not be able

to think or over analyze every situation and possible scenario in our lives where one mistake can cause a ripple effect in our

futures. Only when we are dead, will we be at peace with the world because we are no longer in the world. We will no longer feel pain or the process of hurting as our hearts stop beating and our memories slowly fade. Living is the most difficult thing because the next breath is never guaranteed. Nothing in life is promised, except death. We are not born alive. We are born dead, slowly dying each day, until we have reached death.

Is there any way to make the voices disappear? I stare at my hands as they slowly turn into figureless shapes, clouded by the smoke of cigarettes in my room. I cannot see where my feet lead me as my vision becomes blurry with the tears streaming down my face. I step on something and it cracks; I feel the blood but keep walking. I hear more things shattering, I feel more blood pouring from the bottom of my feet, but I am

relentless. I keep walking. I stand by my balcony window, placing my bloody hands on the cold pane of glass as I exhale a puff of smoke and know this is the end. I open the latch trapping me into this poor motel room, the stale stench of cheap cigarettes and alcohol filling the room. The dreary wind slaps my face, leaving an imprint on my cheek as I gasp for air. I step onto the cold

pavement as goosebumps instantly form on my raw skin with fresh scars and cuts. I am not okay, but maybe I never was. I just got better at hiding the pain. I grip the flaky ledge of the balcony until my knuckles turn a ghostly white. I swing my right leg over first as I yell from the searing pain that I inflicted

on my self. As I prepare to swing the other leg over, I feel a pair of warm hands wrap around my icy shoulders as I snap my head back. He tells me to stop. I burst into shaking sobs of tears as I stare at my daddy's pale face. I run into his arms and forget

about the note I left on my lamp table, declaring the end of my life. I bury my face in his neck, inhaling the musky scent of his shaving cream. He carries me into his arms like he used to do when I was a baby girl and lies me down to sleep. He sits down in the rocker at the foot of my bed and sings a lullaby with his guitar in hand, like he used to do when I had nightmares and wet the bed. Eventually, my eyes rolled in the back

of my head and I fell into a deep, lucid dream. I saw my dad and I started to run toward him, but as I was about to close the distance between us, to feel his beating heart against mine, he simply vanished. I woke up screaming and crying, and that is when I realized: my dad is dead. I should've been dead. My dad's ghost saved my life.

I used to always think mothers and daughters

were like best friends and dads always stayed. 

I used to think I could tell my mom everything,

but she is my enemy. I used to always think 

I could trust my dad, but he is the reason why I fear

being left alone with a man. I used to always think

my parents would never hurt me:

physically, emotionally, or mentally,

but that is not the truth.

Parents are the reasons why we count 

down the years till we turn 18.

Parents are the reasons why we

can't wait to grow up.

Parents are the reasons why we

cover up our forearms,

so no one sees the scars.

Parents are the reasons why we

think of committing suicide,

because if our parents don't love us,

who will?

“Cross God one time, and you will be depicted forever as a bloodied goat man - but I’m the evil one.”

       She crossed and uncrossed her legs.

       Indeed, the young woman across from me was not unpleasant to look at. She was plain looking, mousy even.

       If I had been told that the devil were a woman, my mind would have filled with a vision of a Delilah temptress, forked tongue slipping in my ear while I quivered with waning resistance.

       Alas - no swirling smoke, no hopping henchmen. Dressed in crimson satin, a woman devil of my imagination would convince me to do vile things with whimsy.

       The woman across from me was buttoned down, no cleavage or flitting eyelashes. She looks like a mom. I try to keep my suspicion, any fool could guess that this was naught but a trick. Blue blouse and khakis did not an innocent make.

“Oh, this isn’t my normal form, this is a rental especially for you.”

       A wink, there it was - the trickster was out to play. Ignoring that Lucifer was reading my unexpressed thoughts - I was filled with disgust. This woman possessed, to be used and discarded like some puppet.

“Don’t you recognize me?”

       Staccato laughter burst from her, drawing the attention of the tables around us. It was that laugh that began the chill, which poured over my skin like oil.

“This is my fault, I tend to indulge in theatrics.”

       She began to change. Sallow shrinking greying meat - half of her face ripped up with a violence, showing bloodless flesh - she laughed again, the laughter strange sounding from behind flapping skin. It was then that I saw the tire marks, which crawled up across her chest before me.

“Remember me now?”

       I had tried to forget. Spread on pavement in the dark - I hadn’t gotten a good look. Besides, I had been very drunk.

because, of course she is.

the devil is a woman, with cutting eyes

soft hands and

hollow bones. she gouged out her own wings

because she knew

she didn't need them to fly.

she's not the lady in red, no

instead she's the woman in black

the perpetual mourner for all things she

could have been

if she had been Made male

she knows she'd have been her Daddy's

favourite.

despite this, she is still great

oh, hell hath a woman scorned, yes,

hell bent down on scuffed knees

kissed her bloodied feet

hell worshipped at her altar

gave screeching sacrifices

little blonde girls with bright blue eyes.

satan was never the hulking monster

the roar in the far off else-

no, no, satan was your next door neighbour

with lily-flowers and white knuckles

and the sense of wrongness that meant

you never asked her to babysit.

caricatures, she scoffs, smoking without

a menthol filter

she likes to feel the burn of death

a pale shadow on the wall

a ghost

a fairy story

she thinks they changed it all in the Book

to help themselves sleep at night

the snake, she remembers, had been as

trusting as adam and eve.

she had been so beautiful - she was so beautiful -

and there was no Wrong in eden.

at least, not yet.

trickster, the serpent had wailed when she

left him, legless and armless and hopeless,

i loved you.

lucifer, the morning star, the brightest

of the angels, wears no ruby lipstick.

she stays away from smoky bars

from motorcycles and leather.

she wears cotton, only cotton, because even if the

World is new and she is Old, she still

obeys the Rules 

even if no one else does.

the devil doesn't lie. that's the damndest

thing about the whole sorry mess

the devil doesn't need to lie. she can just

gesture, show off the whole wide world

like a bouquet of rotten flowers

and display the futility of life.

this is the real truth, here and now:

the devil is a woman.

one night she hurtled down from the stars

and has nursed a grudge ever since

the devil is a woman, yes,

and far closer, far more terrible

than you think.