The Devil
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I can hear him
whisper in my ear,
he calls my name,
controls me with fear.
These vile demons
running in my head,
live in my dreams
and beneath my bed.
I feel guilty.
His kind was not meant to dream—no, that gift
Was reserved for others. Not for him.
But he did dream—horribly vivid, raw
Dreams of blood and triumph and ichor.
There is a boy who wishes he was a daughter,
Dresses in skirts and dresses who bothers
can't tell the world, not even his own father.
They call him a faggot,
they call him a dork,
