sold my soul so many times the devil won’t answer my calls sends me straight to voicemail where i ramble on incessantly about that weekend in vegas until he feels guilted into texting me back at three in the morning hoping to catch me asleep

i don’t sleep

it’s cold lately but in that emotional way where every subtle motion is a an ever shifting hellscape of over reactionary aggravation making the idea of doing anything a crippling ordeal of anxious nausea in waves of vomitous dissention

my head hurts

i don’t know anything half as well as i know every curve of her peripatetic poetic soulluster that brightens every dark corner of my insubstantiality and pisses off the devil because he gets the raw end of a soul that clearly belongs to her and her alone