satanic reflections

would come

and

masturbate

on my spirit,

smearing it

with their

virulent semen,

and I would

rot in

fetid memories,

and abuse the body

of

and with

my hands;

forever in the dark;

for in the dark,

the abuse was

diamonds,

yet

in the dark,

evil magnified.

The dark was

my haven;

my brulesque;

my hell.

One winter night,

I -

thirteen

and shriveled and torn -

lay in my bedroom -

shadows pervading my private place -

as

maggot demons

slithered

through

my soul.

The wind

brought

a tapping

behind

the pane.

A branch,

I knew,

and yet,

I knew

that

beyond the glass

was the

ghost,

clouded together by my myst,

come to

slaughter the

pandering demons,

the

incessant whorers

of a

pubescent spirt.

I lifted from

the bed

and

slid the pane.

The wind

was ice,

the ghost,

fantasy.

And yet,

I pretended

that it

was there,

my

gallant specter,

my

only comfort.

-by me