i run with demons. i sit at the table with lucifer and he tells me his secrets. we sip cyanide from crystal goblets and ignore the blood dripping from each other’s mouths. it creates rivers beneath our feet. he says that i am his favourite. when he’s feeling daring he takes me to church for the hell of it, just to turn heads. that was when i first met you. you wore your sunday best and i wore mine and when your mother caught you staring she murmured a prayer. you had an ethereal glow about you and i found myself coughing up holy water hours after the encounter had passed. you’re terrifying. angels would tear their own wings out for you. they would **** themselves to walk the earth. you terrify me because up until the moment we met, i was happy with being a monster. i didn’t mind the flames, the anguish, the bullets that cascaded down on me, the rot. but then i got a taste for the figs that grow on your tree and i found that i would be willing to catch an angel and rip out its wings just so i could give them to you. i would build you a cathedral and i’d read your book, learn your hymns, step into the light just so i’d never have to tear my eyes away from yours ever again.