The Devil
Agony. It’s agony to remember. To remember the red roses, reminiscent of the blood he’d draw later. Happy Valentine’s Day to me. To remember those hands that held me so gently, but then squeezed until I couldn’t breathe, until I panicked. To remember those embraces, so loving, so tender, until they forced me to go to my knees. So I could “go to work” for hours. To remember the jokes about sharing me with his friends while we sit at the table. This isn’t normal, right? “Yes, doctor, please drug me up, because I know what’s coming next, and your needle means it won’t hurt so bad.” His angelic face that charms the nurses is the same one that hides the devil underneath. The devil only I have to see. The devil he only shows me. Dramatic, they call me. Faker, they call me. Liar , they call me. Failed. They failed me. “Why couldn’t you look deeper?!” I want to scream at my parents, my teachers, my youth leaders, my friends. Dramatic. That’s why. That label. The label that hid