I feel this man caress the back of my hand in solace, admiring the softness of my skin and the curves of my fingers, relishing all marks and blemishes of my soul that will never cease in length. He looks at me as I glimpse at our interlacing hands, wanting my veins to feel that rush of ecstasy, that will to sigh and breathe along every stroke made upon my gentle skin. But there is something inside of me that holds me from experiencing such a feeling, a thick barricade suddenly against my chest, as if rods and stones have piled upon numerous bricks, unable to intensify a desire that no longer yearns to be satisfied.
I place my free hand on my chest, and remember that I once reached inside it with trembling fingers and clutched my heart, gripping the organ until I felt it beat, nails digging into flesh until it hushed inside my body. Without hesitation, I ripped it out, quickly, unable to hold that gasp that escaped terrified lungs, needing to feed a craving that starved for my attention. I sucked in all the air I possibly could before my body convulsed, my eyes widening at the heart now resting on the base of my palm, thick blood dripping from the tips of my fingers down length of my arm, blackening skin every time it pulsed. And I felt the blood inside of me boil in rage, pools of it molding at the root of my throat as it fills the crevices of my mouth, choking on the metallic substance in complete defeat. I coughed up and spit ropes of blood through cold, blue lips, tasting death and human corpses, unable to control what gushed out of me as I heave the chaos. Then, I reached out to him and call, call him to me before my body collapsed on cream-colored sheets. I extended my arm out to let him take my heart that now pulses with his, and wait for him to save me, not wanting to die from my own stupendous doing. But that was a mistake, you see. It was too late, too late for me to take it back. It was too late for me to save myself before he could ruin what was left of me. There was nothing much I could do, but suffer in the hands of the Devil who sold his soul well to me, in a war that I eventually won, him ultimately losing the battle.
I was once chained, bounded by a demon who held me prisoner with only his desires achieved, caring only for himself, and not the woman who taught him how to accept himself, despite what others believed. He would place me in these metal constraints that tightened whenever I moved, slicing blood from my wrists, wanting me to feel it trickle down my arms until they covered the innocence I mistakenly portrayed. I could never announce a plea of release. My cheeks were always dried of tears, my mouth was always thirsty for warmth, and my eyes were always tired from the cries that only remained in my room, one that could never be his to claim. It's as if he sits there in front of me, watching me drown in a deep abyss, resting in a lounge chair as he drags his sharp knife against the fabric, wanting me to cringe against the eeriness of his ways. Was I just a pet for him to keep? A body for him to use? Someone he can torture and enslave until I die in his grasp, within his wrath? He kept me locked away for some time, never really desiring me, never really wanting to have me truly as his own.
I was able to escape and won the final fight, slipped out of his hands when he wasn't looking nor suspecting my deceit, broke away from the prison he created from his own torturous and sadistic desires as I left only my scent for him to devour. But I've been running ever since, attempting to escape from his ghost and these nightmares that still haunt me 'til this very day. He still clutches my heart in his bare hands and digs his nails within to control every beat, darkening its blood and ruining its beauty.
Because you see, the Devil himself still owns me. I hear him at dark times, calling me to his bed chambers, bellowing my name in the middle of the night when the clock strikes twelve and the city quiets, leaving thieves and murderers to mutter against windowpanes and scar bedroom walls. He would whisper my name in my ear as if he has come to take my soul for his prize, grazes his teeth along my earlobe as if he's hungry for my flesh, wraps his fingers around my throat as if he's ready to come deeply inside of me, marking me as his. He's still here, all around me; tempting me, threatening me, controlling me, damaging me…making sure I can never just be again.
He's next to me now as this man touches me, as this man presses his lips to my left cheek and smooths the inside of my thumb. He's next to me with snarled teeth, screaming my name, showing me his bloody hand that still clenches my heart. I should be terrified and attempt to release cries that make him smile, want to beg for forgiveness and apologize for winning back my virtues. I should be weak, trembling, aching, needing him to save me…and yet, I'm not.
Instead, I look into his dark eyes and peel back the layers of his black cloak, glaring into his soul until his eyebrows furrow, watching him tremble to the power he didn't know I had. I know he wants me to cave, to be on my knees and surrender to his presence, to tend to his needs while he rubs the back of my head, pushing me down until I beg for air. I know he wants me to crawl, crawl across the room like a good little girl that I am, and wait for his selfish pleasure to somehow arouse me. I harden my gaze as this man's hand reaches to cup my cheek, and I kiss the man before I can be stopped, right in front of the Devil himself. He watches as my tongue licks along another, as my teeth grazes across the man's lips and tugs on the edges. His nostrils flare when I fall against the bed…and suddenly, he's gone.
"Are you okay, baby?" the man asks, wiping the strands of my hair away from my face, snapping me back to mere reality as he expresses genuine concern for my well-being.
I look around before I can answer, and search for the only thing that is worthy of my attention, that requires to be saved and tended to. When I finally see it, my heart resting on top of the dresser with blood dripping down the edges, I watch it heal itself, stitch up wounds and cuts from the demon, collecting holiness as it pulses against the wood and aches for my chest.
I then look into this man's eyes that remind me of ocean waves at dawn on a Sunday morning, ones I once witnessed in June on my mother's birthday. I nod and smile against his full lips, bringing his body closer to mine, letting him take me to a place of solitude, even when the Devil watches from below.