I’m lost in a deep, dark, swirling well, filled with sludge, and leeches that will suck the very sin
from your bones, and evil, satanic things that cannot hold a candle to the horrors I have
wrought, the horror that is love, which will replace your blood and marrow with thick,
liquid fire and brimstone and Hell and dark, smooth, beautiful sin.

It’s like alcohol in that it screws up your world until all you know is one thing, one person, who
stands for everything, because she is the only thing, who falls when morning breaks and
hangover hits and all is condemned and we are all doomed to spend eternity in Hell,
licking Satan’s boots as we redeem the guilt we force ourselves to feel, the guilt we placed
on our savior’s broad shoulders, shoulders that fell when He fell, that dragged all of us, all
of humanity, all of life down with them, down from purgatory and into Hell, shoulders
that sprouted the wings that allowed our savior to fly away from us all.

But there’s an angel standing over me when I look up from the Devil’s boots, where my noble
savior abandoned me; an angel bathed in blood, with white wings newly stained shades of
red and black and violet and violence and devil’s blood; an archangel who has sinned as I
have sinned, but who has risen above the punishment she has inflicted upon herself and
has slaughtered the minions of He whose boots I have tasted, and the Devil himself, the
Devil and the God; an archangel who paints her face with demon gore and who paints my
lips with fiery sin as I have never felt before, as my soul may not survive to feel again, for
I have yet to fulfill my self-inflicted punishment--for I am not as strong as she--the most
horrible of which will be to never taste Satan’s blood, now her blood, now the blood that
colors her lips the darkest black, to never taste it again.