"You're a wreck," he says, burning holes through my skull with his gaze, just like he lights up the worlds underneath.
"You're a mess that you expect everyone else to clean up," he says, shoving his hand under my chin and forcing me to look at him, like he was staring into my soul again for the very first time.
I know, I tell him. You think I don't know?
I know I can't do anything for myself and I know that you don't want me. I know that I need you more than you'll ever need me.
"I'm not going to be around all the time to fix you," he says, narrowing his eyes with a fierceness that would scare even his nastiest demons.
"You don't have any of the King's horses and you sure as hell don't have any of the King's men," he says, spitting out words like flames.
I know, I tell him. I've heard this all before.
Now I'll see his fire again for the very first time and I'll convince myself he hates me because he cares. Then I'll reach out and beg just like always and I'll cry until he quells his rage. And in his ever-loving graces, he'll pull me back into the inferno, tying me up in his red-hot chains and leaving me to watch as he dances through the reds and oranges and the dark, burnt yellows that encompass his frame and give him a halo of heat.
I'll see him again for the very first time, and I'll swear that he's beautiful to all that is holy, becuase I've been so far down below that I've gained attention from up above.
If you weren't the Devil, I tell him as I again swear to Whoever's listening.
If you weren't the Devil, I'd call you an angel.
