No moonlight brightens the
midnight sky as I approach
the black altar to My Dark Lord.
In my left hand, the white cat purrs,
anxiously pleading as though he
understands why I carry
the knife in my right.
It is over quickly, feline throat
slashed and blood offered. I
set fire to a Bible and ask that
Beelzebub grant me sight in
exchange for my immortal soul.
Hail Satan! I shout to the darkness
before disrobing and smearing a
bloody pentagram on my chest.
The ritual complete, I stand, breathing
in the smoke of desecrated scripture
and laugh, knowing that I have
overcome the curse God gave me at
birth, that my vision has been fully
restored by Almighty Lucifer and that
all I have lost is the humanity I never
asked for in the first place. As the fire
burns out, I lick the blood from the knife
and return home. When I awake, I see
no better than before, and my stomach
is full of bile. My hair reeks of ash and
scratch marks scar my hands. The
police are at my door holding the
neighbor’s dead cat, I think. (with
eyesight this bad, I can never be
sure.) And then, at last, I realize my mistake.