I catch the ones that she’s too sweet for.
She’s my angel, my inspiration. My back to her shoulders, I’m her shadow. While the light shines on her, it stops with her and it’s left me cold. They think I hate her, that I resent what she is and what she has become, hate her for being clean. They’re fools. She’d be nothing without me, and I’d be too much without her. She keeps me in my place, and that place lives. It breathes. She keeps me clean like lye; of course it burns.
They think I’m cruel. I play with too many lovers. I dress in dark leather and I wear sharp metal and I scare mothers and fathers. I’m the bad body, the demon, and the player. I’m the wicked one. I represent a certain needful demographic that she could never touch without a proxy.
They’re wrong.
I won’t let them touch her. I step into the dark and bring them trembling before her throne. I am the demon, and she is my God. I serve her from my empty place, and she receives me with a compassion you will never know.
They say that she has suffered and risen above a life that I embrace, and that much is true. I’ve seen her wet. I’ve seen her ugly. I’ve smelled her sweat, and I have smelled her at her nastiest. I pushed her back. I screamed and shouted. I left a bruise on her cheek, and I was in agony. All the stories talk about her struggle, her adversity. Her pain. She couldn’t feel a thing until I broke that mask of invincibility. No one could smell her until I shattered it. I was her villain, but now she is the martyr. I was the obstacle that she needed to overcome. I lost her then.
They draw her with angel wings. Her light’s severe and striking. She’s never once forgiven me, but she pretends to forget. They tell her to abandon me, and she ignores them. She remembers that I smelled her, and she keeps me close. She sends me down to feel the way she felt, and I can’t deny her. She tells me that I’m beautiful the way I am, and I accept her. She’ll only touch me if I smell like another woman, another man. They call her pure, and this is true. They call her innocent, and I could almost cry.
She stands above me, hands on my shoulders. She keeps my head low, throws her thigh against my cheek, her nails into my hair. She makes me see her as the animal, makes me smell her. Only I can see her as she is – a woman. Only I can worship her as her true self and not an idol. She hurts me with her words and with her kindness, with the way she forgives me but she never lets me rise to breathe. She’ll never let me heal. She’ll never let me want to.
She’s a monster, with all the fire and heat and hate of ancient angels. She is an angel. They just don’t know what angels are. She makes me be her demon. I am a demon. You just don’t know how demons hurt, how they must always serve a master. I drink her sins, so she can be the everything you need of her. I drink her sins because that’s everything she’ll let me have.
She used to kiss me. But those were in our human days. You don’t want the humans, though, and we couldn’t survive in human ways, not with the passion you fed to us. We were warped and changed. We became what you demanded. So she will rise above, and I still lie below and at her feet. You put her on that pedestal, and she put her heels into my back. Our loving audience…
I miss the days when she had a name. Now she has all of you, and less of me, and I keep what I can reach to dull the memories.
Don’t judge me. Don’t you dare. You like me better this way.
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