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.Your father saw God in your dark eyes, Childhood innocence meeting judging omniscience.A spark of creation that couldn't be found at the bottom of a whiskey bottleOr a whispered prayer to the stained glass heavens.He made you play Jesus, Killing you for his sins. Your blood poured like wine onto the altar, The fabric staining red as your grip on the ropes tightened.Judgement from heaven stuck him down,But each crash of thunder only reminded you of the whip..(He made you dig your own grave in the backyard once, Hoping that when the dirt covered your eyes, he wouldn't see you staring, Knowing, judging, Pitting.He was wrong.). You met Lucifer when he was just a boy, Pale haired, pale eyed, not broken but void of caring.You saw in him the shattered remains of a soul,How his sins writhed inside like the Serpent who tempted Adam and Eve. He promised you eternal glory, That he could reshape you into God's image with ice and epi-pens. Foolish fallen angel,You sold away your soul to him for a single smile,A deadly signature on an irreversible pact.. ((It was like jumping into a frozen lake, Except the jump was only a few steps. The ice chinked against the sides of the plastic tub as you slipped in,A sacrifice, the runt of a lamb. The water was cold, but beyond it, the darkness warm and welcoming. As you slipped into a numbing sleep, You could almost swear you could see Satan at the sink, Sipping whiskey over your cold body, A fuzzy panic pricking his mind.Maybe the Serpent was human once,You decided as you floated away.)). You created the Devil with a hollow promise, Letting him collect a rim of snow on the edge of the sink. In taking away his winter, You told him the story of Frankenstein.Surely you should have knownHe would want to follow in his name-sake's steps.You weren't there for when his heart fluttered and faltered,But you could almost feel the flat-line in the pit of your stomach. You both died. Neither of you came back to life. Not really.. It was holy to kill those already dead, You insisted as you leveled the gun.An excuse for the linoleum floor painted red ten years ago, Ten years too late.I do it for him, you insist.I do it for Him. . The minutes pass in a haze.The drawing in your hand is rumpled, flecked with dried blood.There's a stick girl ghost holding hands with a too thin stick man,Both dotted with red ink.Had he practiced tracing the scars so he could draw them perfectly? And as you look at the small jerk of a pencil somehow perfectly conveying his smirk,All you can think isHis medium is sharpie.. It's time to kill Lucifer,Who's somehow risen like Jesus. It seems contradictory, you think as you load your gun. It's not how the scripture goes. The Devil, with his ink stained hands, has rewritten your Bible.And made the scripture his.. (In the beginning ********************* heaven ************* *****************************************************************was*************************************************************************************************************************************dark*************************). When it is done, there is no quiet, No peace or calm assurance. There is no voice of God congratulating you on your final kill. There are sirens and guns, blaring and vibrant, A dead body on the concrete floor slick with blood. And as the bars slide shut, you hear His voice:"What have you done?"