Should I sell my soul to the devil?
In trade, I offer my poems—
a place in famous anthologies,
a chance to reach the world
with my words.
I ponder this in the comfort
of my living room,
a lavender candle lit,
my cinnamon delight curled at my side,
watching a bug limelight its way
across the ceiling.
Limelight—
is it worth the weight of my fate?
Of every laugh, every tear,
after the contract is signed
in blood?
I wonder.
But then I think—
what is a soul made of
if not the ravaged, tender pages
I’ve already given away
one poem at a time?
What bargain could he offer
that I haven’t already made
with midnight,
with coffee spoons,
with the quiet ache
that pushes me to write
when everyone else sleeps?
Fame is a fickle lantern,
glowing bright, fading fast.
But my words—
my stubborn, breathing words—
they are mine.
Hard-won.
Homegrown.
And I decide,
as the candle burns low
and my cinnamon delight sighs
against my ribs—
I will rise on my own ink,
not on his terms.
Never on his terms.