Those seven devils were facets of your own mind.
I caught you in my mouth with Wrath, and you crawled
out, changed, from between my teeth. Broken
bones stopped you like Pride never could-
your hands hit his serpent’s head often
and it’s testament to the golden idyllic ice-heart
melting inside your chest that Envy didn’t get you
until you saw how his tongue touched the sky,
until you realised, burning, that you’d never be
special. Not in that way.
Then came Lust in how your howl-strung,
dog-dark eyes landed on the man before the messiah,
the mortal before the heralded heavens,
and it was his name you rasped, not mine,
never mine, because Greed
had already taken hold. The coveting
of white eyes and grace and life and being
and no destruction, eternally, in that everlasting
blasted abyss. The cave of your chest not a shelter,
but a hail-storm,
swallowed up. You’re a Glutton for a ghost
you can’t even feel. Intoxicated on air
and the blazing smoke of fading oblations, glass
in your lungs- the shards of my ribs bleeding sounds
from your lips.
But there’s a card in my hand of which he can’t rid you,
a paper cage, the locket that keeps back the voices
and drowns you at sunrise. It’s name is repose,
Sloth in the infinite apathy of new faith’s bright burn.
It’s illusion is safety
as it winds through you like desert dust, the dull side
of the sword. Run, child, but know I will be dancing
in your bones. My nightshade and suicide tree
has already taken root, liver-deep, buried
in the word-softened soul
where your man makes his home.