What the devil does to me

There is a devil in my reflections stare,
when it's in my view I can hear it speak,
I can feel its heated dead skin touch on me.
On my sleeves the nectar the feelings spare,
butterflies they stab at me without any beaks,
transfixed on the devil in the reflection they see.

Every time the devil sets itself free,
whispers follow, they twist and turn my mind,
opening thoughts to injuring and death.
The beautiful patterned wings of pain I see,
a strobe light of blinking the devil blind,
paced up my racing heart and deepened breaths.

Then I walk away.