The devil is the only friend I have who doesn’t betray me. He doesn’t make promises he won’t keep, doesn’t leave when things get hard, doesn’t pretend to care only to walk away when I need him most. He’s always there—lurking in the shadows of my mind, whispering familiar things, holding me close when the world feels too cold to bear. In a way, he’s the only one who’s ever truly stayed, the only one who knows every dark corner of my heart and doesn’t flinch.
I’ve tried to push him away, to drown out his voice with hope, love, and light. But people leave, and dreams fade, and when everything crumbles, he’s still there—waiting, patient, knowing I’ll come back. And I always do. Because when loneliness wraps itself around me, when the weight of existence feels unbearable, he doesn’t offer empty words or fleeting comfort. He offers what no one else does: consistency. A twisted kind of solace in the familiarity of pain.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ve invited him in or if he’s always been here, a part of me I was never meant to escape. Maybe I stopped fighting because I realized there was no battle to win—just an understanding that some demons aren’t meant to be slain, only endured. And he endures with me, through every sleepless night, every hollow morning, every silent ache that no one else seems to notice.
The devil may not be kind, but at least he’s honest. And in a world full of false promises and fleeting affections, maybe that’s the only kind of friendship I can count on.
