Yolk of the Devil

When it comes to instincts, it's hard to walk past them. Damn, they're the testimony of how I ran out of tissues to wipe you off my eyes. I shouldn't be appalled if my eyelids explode like a pressure cooker punched in the tummy. I trusted the trust you fabricated with the diabolical atoms from Lucifer's body. Although you never were a fallen angel. You were the slur that perchance died out under the sun but the dead are loafers chilling out here and there as the darkness to the conceited sky which is hungrily lusting to have eight distinctly adulterous consummations with the moon. 

The venom in me isn't your contribution. I wouldn't give you the power of attorney because anything that has you in it is an arrow stuffed with the yolk of the deil. Plotting to drag me to a bed that has a sheet flattened out of a dragon who is in his slumber but is very much in contact with the inferno boiling in his mouth. 

In the cup of your hands was the fault in my stars, I worshipped you because I didn't know the pincode to post my prayers. 

The equanimity with which you thrust an autopsy of your forged halo down my trachea was an abortion of me in you and there was no midwife to remove whatever was remaining of me out of you. You can keep that, fold it and keep it as a sticky note that tells you I was there but I am not anymore. 

I have done all that was within my reach to keep you off my dreamcatcher. The net is a swing to ephialtes and the aftershocks have a rage that I have been electrocuted with. 

The venom in me is in my custody and it has not killed me. And... 'That which does not kill us makes us stronger.' 

©songbriti