My Soul for the Devil

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.