Prose

If you sell your soul, you will become a wine on Devil’s lips

They say, if you sell your soul, you will become a wine on Devil’s lips, bitter, but sweet, toxic, thick. They say, if you make that pact at the intersection, at midnight on Friday, with the shadow of a bloody hole, you’ll be gifted, damned, I don’t know. Transparency runs from the bite on my neck from the pearly canines, and I, in turn, slide down his cut wrist. We cut each other to fit again into the form of two lovers sharing one heart. My darkness and I are entangled in a quadrangular black hole, pumping blood. My first ambition was an original sin when I screamed how innovation could kill a saint. Women can be holy, women can have the same sacred courage as men, but ordinary mortals denied my aspiration to be someone, so I went to the devil’s lap to find a solution. Since then, I have been a hellish creature that destroys the earth with inhuman desires. I bend like the stem of a rose deprived of water, descended underground, in the footsteps of a fallen angel, fragrant petals smelling of a cave with memories of the hot summer sun and dreams of first love. I bend like a green stem of a rare tree, able to learn from my mistakes, but I’m not a firm tree resistant to breaking in devil’s hands. Women in hell bend at their feet as they spin in circles while Viennese waltz rolls them over rusty floors. But, who do I worship as a woman? Only him, now carved in my left forearm. He blew me away on Sunday only to put me to sleep, kissed my forehead, and sang in his baritone of a sweet song of love. He cut roses for me, built me a palace in my mind. And I tell him stories of lifelessness, unconscious of origins of life. To be his asexual organism of light and darkness, yin and yang, the platonic ideal of unstoppable force and immovable object, to become one with my birth and decay, salvation and savior. And, there’s truth in this, because one cannot exist without the other. Heretics often have holiness in their apocryphal texts, so if there’s one in my ordinary ones, perhaps I am one too, a lover of forbidden fruits, with the knowledge that the mentality wanted to keep out of my madrigal hands. I speak to the Devil when I have no one else. Give me your darkness, and I will be your brightness. Make me a necklace of your bones and ribs, and I’ll dance naked in the shallows of death, fishing for destiny in my waters in vain. What lies in the deep is ours. I’m a lake of flames, in which people quickly catch fire- a vessel, a vase, a petroleum jelly, a balm for their soul. They like to joke, but sometimes, they weep and cling to my chest, raging against the will of the one who takes me, because I let it suck my blood, and I’m not sorry. We’re all just victims of the war on this earth, and angels and demons dream alike of happy endings, revelations that turn to dust before their end. For those whose hearts are beating, little things are what every immortal long for, envy mortals of flesh and blood, and peace is simply a lie we tell ourselves until angels and demons set their sword and spear aside. The Devil longs for nothing more than forgiveness but refuses salvation because that means that the world would end. You, ordinary mortals, suffer only to hold on to humanity, the kingdom of earth and sea, the cosmos shifting, and inside it, in the heart of galaxies, every man is a black hole. Therefore, it’s a dance, so we make love long and slowly until midnight, and we seek solace in white hands. I run my hands through his charcoal black hair. The harp is playing as I tie the strings of fate, because we will meet again at the crossroads, and this time I will not run, screaming for the holy place. I’ll kiss him on the tips of my fingers, and we’ll talk about many things, and again, about nothing. And peace will no longer be a dream, nor will a nightmare be the Devil in a suit. He will be free.

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