the devil’s good daughter

is it her or me who’s made it all a calamity?

i think it’s just this place that’s making me hate humanity.

when someone else wins i turn to my insecurities—

turning, running, clinging to their always-full udders,

dripping and drinking the milk from the devil—

i sip, i sip, i sip.

my chosen mother is good to me,

even on the darkest nights

when it’s just her and i—

alone, abandoned by the others.

we sit by the fire and reminisce

on those who have come and gone.

my body screams out but i comfort her still,

knowing her pain of missing a son.

so maybe it’s time i change my mother,

choose a different udder.

choose different words to utter—

when someone wins who is not me,

realize most of their wins are wins for humanity.

because i won’t ever win down here.

i’m seeing that now.

i’m thinking of leaving too,

but i don’t yet know how.

whenever i go, i’ll have to be discreet.

using my arms and not my voice,

climbing, climbing, climbing out —

bloodies biceps indented from her claws.

her eyes rest but she’s always listening,

waiting for a brain and words so glistening

that a hawk would’ve scooped them up

if she had not gotten to them first.

i’d say they would’ve rather the bird of prey

over a devil for a mother,

but with every winner that gets on stage

they place her at the top of their list to thank—

maybe secretly missing the darkness,

forever singing her praise.

and the ones who listen? they don’t know.

they only see the biceps that climbed, climbed, climbed

back up to the surface, and then some.

they see this cave as just an allegory,

as a mandatory stop on every winner’s story.

they sing glory, glory, glory to the prison

as i watch from down in purgatory.