Down

The devil doesn't come to you 

all red and fire and brimstone 

But he seeps into your life 

like ink in water, or a low black cloud

Then rises up in you like a dark wave

Until you're a house in the night without lights on.

The devil doesn't howl at you

all loud and wild and gutteral

But at night he whispers, calmly

Into sleeping, dreaming ears

Lustful liturgies and broken gospel

Until you're a radio without a melody.

The devil doesn't bear fruit for you

all crisp and tart and sweet

But he serves you some candlelit dinner, 

Slow-braised and falling off the bone,

Until your stomach turns

And all that you taste is rotten.

The devil doesn't make me come for you,

My skin all red and fire and brimstone - 

But your hands, your tongue, your eyes

Your body is hallowed ground,

Bury me beneath it,

Three shovels-full of dirt upon me

Until I'm a moan without a mouth. 

One for the time you pulled my hair

Two for the time you choked me 

Three for the time you told me you loved me

I am the unsaved, and it is warm here.