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
Copyright © Kearra Kramer | Year Posted 2015
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment