In darkness there swells the truth about you. The murky depths of the truth you wish you did not want so badly to see up close. The Devil is in your blood is black like rain is watering the dead. You seem to have built a temple you can no longer manage to maintain and so the crumbling comes naturally, almost as a relief. Destruction as the sweet jolt of violation, the art of pain as surprise. He steps in close to you and you disappear against yourself into the void. You watch for the signs. You count the numbers, you lay out the cards, you mark the corners, face each: north, east, south, west. Clockwise. Counterclockwise. Drink from the cup. Never break the circle. You bite a stranger on the mouth and take him home to find out if you hate yourself and if you do, how deep does that go inside. As long as you can hardly feel it as long as it doesn’t hurt as long as you never have to fight back. In a small room which is buried in your chest, a candle burns, melts its molten syrup down along the hard surface of the many orbiting moons. In another world beyond this hell you exist outside the binds of good and bad, as a midnight flower which opens silently into the fragile air. As an idea of what freedom has forever tasted like, eyeless, needless, breathless. Little shell, little bone. Make a wish. Take me home.