Scarlett Choi

I have always believed that she was the devil.

 

Her hands are like silk,

Soft and untainted, 

Only used when she’s given things,

Her face is so bright,

Like a sun in itself 

And it warms up the earth

But shrivels the eyes.

 

She speaks like a false prophet—

Carefully chosen criticism 

But so desperately charismatic.

And when she looks at things 

as if she knows them better,

you must accept she does,

even if she is wrong.

 

How does she live–

Her mind washed with summer 

Her world saturated with beauty 

Painted brighter than natural? 

How does she never 

Mourn the wasted time

And dirty her hands with blood

As the human person should do? 

 

Yes, her smile is piercing 

And her skin is from snakes,

I stand at the foot of her throne

And I chip at the silver. 

Yes, I loathe her whole self.

I loathe her righteous sermons,

I loathe her loving touch,

I loathe her whole self.

 

And yet.

Even still.

 

I know that her eyes 

Will be more heavenly 

Even if I saw 

The face of god.

I know her touch 

is more kind

and her embrace 

is tighter.

 

I know her kiss 

Is more romantic 

As if each one is her first

And when I look in the mirror,

I see not myself,

But Her disfigured body

staring me back.

 

And then I come to the truth, 

the fear that irks my mind,

And I utter words in a breath

That I dare not say aloud: 

 

I have always believed that she was the devil,

But I wish it had been me.