a sacrament
unique, in that it confers no grace upon me,
but lays all glory upon the devil,
who was smart enough to claim my soul.

and now here i am, in a house of hell,
whose walls are covered in carvings,
basso relievo.
naked women on the walls—my sisters, perhaps my kin—
all of them cruelly curved, bloody and broken
and, i should think, in no way entrancing.

but i am no longer a part of the land
that gave me such beliefs,
and my still heart now thrills to see them.
but a knot of dead muscle by now, it no longer beats;
but, through some power of deep,
leaps into my throat,
then dies there.
i choke.

the dark-skinned demon beside me, hell’s emissary,
lays his hand on mine.
his flesh is fearsome—pocked and thorned, the color of pitch—
but his touch is gentle,
and thus, i do not fear.
i have seen more frightening things.

past him there is nothing
not marks, nor carving, nor dying bloodied women—
and, whether this place be Heaven or Hell, it mattered not.
in that moment, feeling fearless and safe,
i could have been in either, and known no difference.
all dread leaves me, and i enter.

there sits evil’s emperor, the daemon, the devil himself,
awaiting me upon his grey throne.
his skin is pale, his face without feature—
he might have been my father, or my brother.
i can see no difference.
i am surprised.