I have a little black book of which I let my dark thoughts run wild,
A diary of sorts, written in cursive, a date at the corner, a signature at the bottom.
There’s something cathartic about the way the black ink seeps into the paper,
the way my heart lightens at the stained pages, the anger and darkness that bled into something tangible and visible,
I like knowing that my monsters are there,
I like seeing my battle scars,
And I like to see them burn.
Oh, burning things is so satisfying. Don’t you think?
The flames, the way they lick their way through the paper,
That crackling of the fire prickles at your skin like goosebumps,
And the heat, the light, lifts your spirit just that little bit, curves your lips,
Suddenly those nightmares are nothing more than crisp black ashes and tendrils of smoke,
Yes, I burn those tattered, angry, sad little black of books of mine,
The ability to do so took a long while, but I had found the strength, the Devil’s strength, as I like to call it,
Because it is not the Angel’s, not any God that answers to me at night,
But a voice darker than my own that urges me forward, threatens me,
If you cannot move heaven, then you shall raise Hell, it says to me,
And I find myself with enough air in my lungs to last me the rest of the day,
I have a little black book of which I let my thoughts run wild,
I will keep writing them,
I will keep burning them,
Until there is no ink, no blood, left for me to bleed onto the paper,
Devil’s Strength my darling.