Can you save my soul? From the depths of your home, of your hell, of your fire.
I know I should ask this of our God but he never seems to hear me and I have this feeling my soul has been yours for a long time now.
You seem to push it through burning hoop after hoop. It is so tired, Devil, I am so tired.
Can you save my soul? It hasn’t been mine in a long time, I know. It’s probably changed a lot now, hardened, matured, grown armour, thistles, thorns.
I wouldn’t usually asked for such a thing but I seem to have misplaced so many of my other vitals. My heart was given to what I thought was an angel but he had clearly fallen further than even you. My brain has been riddled with parasites, eating away each thought, making new hell’s for me to keep themselves happy. My lungs are so shrivelled and tired I have simply handed them over to sticks of nicotine, they weren’t helping me anyway. Give the metaphor a way to kill me right? Or some John Green bullshit like that.
I think you may have something of mine, it is as tiny and shrivelled as I am. It is cold and hurt and it feels like there’s ice running through it’s veins, but it is still mine, dear devil, and I think I may need it.