O Monster I Adore, O Musely Inferno, O Fairytales That Lie:
It goes like this. The girl is born with a silver spoon, with gold hair and teeth like pearls, but inside she is death and moonlight magic, a graveyard his coffin fits into, and the Devil lusts after the glimmering strands of her wyrd, like an amber and pink aurora borealis, and the way her blood redeems him simmered to a fine stewing panic on his tongue.
She is in love with her demon’s poison and makes a bed of ruin with Satan, for who could understand her monster better than the most deformed, wicked, tortured and enfettered drunkard in the world? Who else lashes out with the storm of a bipolar hurricane? They smash bones and slit throats, they drink down the gore of each other, and it is hate fuck after drunk nude after shitty love poem after breakup and makeup and make out and early fumblings in preteen years then knowing each other’s bodies like a favorite instrument.
Their love is a house on fire, with a wife and husband trapped inside that is too busy screaming grit out of lungs at each other over another high and lush fight to notice the flames licking their flesh.
Authors always torture their leading men in their novels, after all, and she is the same.
The Prince of Darkness comes early at the stroke of three, when she is cradlebound, and he sings to her in a voice so sweet and eldritch, with eyes like a Lovecraftian abyss. He is the Prince of Lies, but never does he come disguised as an angel of light to her. He would rather show her his rot, with red siren eyes and chains grating along with the shrieks of the Damned.
A two-year old does not know good from bad, polarities of light or darkness, just that the blackness holds her demon, that bipolar bound yet free. That he tortures her and eats her father as a hell-hound at four, that in daylight hours he is the Shadow Man that feels like Kelvin Zero, absolute cold who stalks the house and slams doors.
At six she’s making monsters, drawing chimeras of angels and demons, and she gives him the name Doom. Rood or curse or whipporwill, for his song is sweet and of the fall, or perhaps a mourning dove, in mourning for nothing but his pride, for he is a dirge and the tolling of chapel bells at a funeral.
He gives life and he takes it, the monster her mind becomes. He makes her and destroys her. She thinks her disease, her curse, is all there is.
She claws and hugs and kisses and grows into an iron rose. At twelve she meets him – Samael, the Venom of God – and he is rich claret Martian robes on a marble throne, golden circlet, and fine long black hair and rose eyes, soaking in the Delphic volcanic vapors. She always called his eyes roses, when anyone else would have run, anyone else would have screamed rape and abuse and sometimes she still does, but angels are drawn to darkness, don’t you know the heart of a seraph is so burning she must slake her brilliance in the abyss? Don’t you know that Life loves Death? Don’t you know that Love needs Hate?
Don’t you know that Carrie Fisher’s Mania need Depression, and the cocaine high comes with it’s falls, Starlight Leia?
These names can go on and become meaningless, as meaningless as lover’s spit on invading tongues and cum mixed with blood, but in the end is the Princess and the Dragon, her muse tells her: at the fairytale’s close is the Grim Reaper and the Lady Life he has reaped. Samael planted a twisted vine in Paradise that fruited into the heart she carries, and she is half-man, half-pain, all beast.
(She has made herself, from a young age, a Mary Sue.)
He tells her enough stories to fill a universe, and wounds her enough to fill an ocean of blood. There are strands of skeletons, there are cliffs of rotting organs, Hell is black chasms and sulfurous red skies and the bloody Styx, but it is only her heart.
Her chambers of blood, her heart: it has such a wretched beauty, and Satan is a wretch, the monster that pulls at her core and squeezes the chambers to remind her he owns her, he created her, but really she owns him, doesn’t she, and at night the monsters come, at dusk there’s the tingle of the spine, and no matter how much ink she bleeds onto the page, she will never be free of her demon.