a slant-rhyme exercise.

the Devil often sleeps in my house
and sometimes lingers long enough for breakfast

“the Lady is a Player…” He softly murmured
when He first saw me, first laid His hands upon me

and months later, when i watched Him walking the crowd
nodding and provoking beauty with His every word

i knew i was lost in His soft-spoken lies
and felt myself slipping down His sweet little laugh

yet, still, every morning i would up on my hope
as if to dress myself up for the man who would rape

and every long night i would quarrel with god
and become less of a stranger to the bottled sunrise

as i thought of the dirt i have lodged beneath my fingernails
and how i’m not so sure that i’m real without Him

and once more, like in this sorry morning light
when He came to my room with that Fuck-or-Fight look

the blood seized up in my too-shallow veins
and i crashed into Him, whimpering viciously

and as He turned from where i lay destroyed on the floor
with the brand of the Stoics upon my broken brow

i thought of my childhood’s wish for rosebushes
and i pretended that the Devil’s whore deserved roses