It’s a habit I sip when the sun retreats for the evening; I see demons in the corner of dungeons, guiding shadows the length of these four walls, hiding cracks in the black candles arranged for me strapped to the table; she pours hot wax on my stomach, begging me to confess to sleeping with her friend last December. I’d admit it if it happened, but I didn’t mind the jealousy she smoked through a Cuban cigar. I’d have allowed her to kill me rather than confess to something I did last September.

(© 2022 AC)

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