Pounds of Flesh
I think I was born as 3.3 pounds of flesh to sacrifice to Satan,
All underdeveloped lungs and overdeveloped heart.
My parents weren't prepared for my death, and I wasn't prepared for my survival.
Guess who won out?
22 off-balanced years have ticked by, waiting for the day Lucifer would claim his prize.
I heard his whisper when they told me at age two that I wouldn't run or jump, would be bullied, would grow to loathe the very limbs that held me up.
He got a little louder when I cried in the arms of my father, sobbing, "Daddy, what about me?" And louder still when Daddy walked out the door. (Don't get me started on the piercing screams in my head the night he died.)
At sixteen, when I lost my best friend, he sent new ones, disguised as fallen angels. He put the blade in my hand, but he didn't end it there.
Just take me, I begged.
At age 18, I took matters into my own hands, and even the devil turned me away.
19, again and again, and twenty, too.
When is it over? I asked. Take me away away away.
And then there was you.
I should've known.
Suicide was simple.
Disability was easy.
No, he had to watch me suffer,
Watch me hold a gift from the gods in my hands,
And then rip it away with my heart in its clutches.
His whispers turned to laughter as you kissed me.
I heard the horrible sound in the back of my mind every time we were skin on skin, but I pushed it away. Because being with you was bliss.
Maybe survival wouldn't be so bad.
Oh, was I wrong.
Satan sent you lovers, one after the other, to take my angel away.
I began to feel his grip on me when you told me you loved me, and then changed your mind. With every withheld kiss and every new fuck, I feel him closing in.
What will be the finale, the closing scene? I don't think I'll be able to bear it, but that's probably the point.
Satan's 3.3 pounds of flesh has grown to 150.4, but he won't get it all.
The sacrifice will be a few pounds short, as my heart remains forever in your hands.