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I could use his fangs as a mirror if I wanted to. His existence was one of the strangest sights; like a flowerbed of bleeding stars that had fallen from the moon’s mercy into the ground with brains like cracked tombstones. He likes it there. The night fondles him in his sleep and spits in his mouth when he snores too loud. When he wakes up, there is lust on his hands and warped words are whispered from his tongue as his fingers speak the most colorful language of all. Languages many hear, but know not to speak. Languages many know not to speak, but wish they had the gall to. The Devil waits outside of his door in the early morning and God is the prisoner of his heart. Confrontation of anything is avoided like a three headed serpent that speaks languages only all four of them know. My screams flow like rivers inside the creases of his palms and my fears transform into his biggest fantasy when the flowerbeds need tending. And when he smiles, I see myself in his fangs, my reflection a little smaller each time.
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