Born of the devil’s kiss, an aching in her soul
her skin not clear but exquisitely marked
For the devil liked her very much – did he
Showering her, blanketing her from head to toe with hot, desiring kisses
The kiss of life, the kiss of death
Leaving small, charcoal evidences behind wherever he touched
like tiny bruises that went deeper than they appeared
for they looked like shallow things, only they were much more profound
sinking down to her very being
And when as a child she wondered very much on the origin of the symbols
and the implications
well then her grandmother told her, “Those are devil kisses – he must like you very much!”
So she lay in her bed at night, just a little sweaty and fearful; imagining:
would the devil himself show up; and did he love her?
Later, through times of strife, she wished he would show up
to explain a few things
Then again, maybe he did.
In the form of a cruel lover; revealing to her things like deceit, jealousy and revenge!
Ah, but those are merely earthly things, she thinks…
since she knows the devil must have more important occupations to fill his time.
And every now and then she can feel the scorching from deep within,
the mark – an indicator and sign
of something so much more
and be it evil or benign
it is there all the same
as she looks out upon the world with a burning gaze:
Beauty without; the devil within.