Conversations With the Devil

My insecurities Ripping me limb from limb Tearing the flesh right off of my bones Licking the blood off of their wicked and long ...Fingers. Pressed against my temple and the nails pierce the skin to leave the blood ..trickling down the side of my face.. ..face..my face.. Is it truly mine? Is it truly MY face? Could I even call it my own? The devil says when we look in the mirror All he can see "is the face of a broken little girl Living in a broken little world" He sings to me some days.. Other days he whispers in my ear (He'll sit on my shoulder and never stops talking..I wouldn't mind it so much..if he'd quit putting his cigarettes out on the back of my neck..) He whispers to me: 'You're scared aren't you?' 'Scared of what?' 'Scared someone other than myself realizing just what's behind that pretty little mask of yours..' 'What's so pretty about it? What have I got to hide?' 'EVERYTHING. All the things you've said..and done. How you fear, your face has your history written all over it.' 'They won't find out.' 'Oh, and how do you figure?' 'No one knows now, and I won't tell them. I won't tell anyone!' 'Oh, but I will. I'll tell everyone how angry you really are, how badly you wish to ..misbehave.' 'Shut up...shut your..shut the..SHUT UP! SHUT UP!' I scream And I cover my ears But he just laughs at me "How can you block me out," he says, "when I only exist inside of your head?" This poem was edited for content