Holes in my body,
so I must be unholy.
Inkstains in the temple,
let the devil claim me.
Rebel, schemer,
selfish, demon.
My tongue is forked,
the words must be wicked.
Fire in my eyes,
let the deal be made.
I walk on air,
with gravity,
and I dance
between ballads
and melancholies—
I must be a monster,
a mesmer,
a sharper,
a snake—
what else could explain
how small you feel?