Skeletons in the Closet

Shove me into the dark,
and watch how perfectly I etch my name
into the wall. I sold my soul to the demon of words,
and he knows my heart.
He knows because he ripped it from
my chest and stared at it like its was the remains
of a dead freak in formaldehyde.
His gnarly fingers gave it back,
with his blessing, to breathe in
the ugliness that teaches me. The toxic
dead that roam the streets of my own private
red light district. Each breath is
monitored, and I can feel the black
blood coarse through me, when I dare
to believe goodness is still in
even a fraction of what any of us
carry around with us. Hidden behind
beautiful faces, and political graces;
but we are still the same.
And he knows my full name.