Of Soot and Skin

I sit by the crackling flames, memorised as the firelight paints my face in ember glows.

My phone pings, a notification. ‘Luci active.’ On Where the Little Things Are. A dating app promising intimacy in micro doses.

I press my hands into my eyes, breathing the scent of smoked wood. Just hours ago, I lay tangled in his arms, his warmth pressed into my bones. Now, that same heat feels like soot layered thick across my skin.

He once said, “I’m the Devil.”

Playful. Effortless. Confident, like it wasn’t a warning, but a brag. And each time, my body reacted like it was the first. My brain paused. My pulse didn’t.

I laughed, sometimes. Other times, I swallowed my breath and stared, searching his eyes for either confirmation or denial I was never sure which I wanted.

He had many faces. I’ve seen them all. Not just on him, but on others. Echoes. Shadows. The same smirk on the lips of men who could strip your soul and make you thank them.

They wear different suits, speak in different tongues, but their rhythm is always the same. I’ve felt it before: a hand trailing down my spine like a song I tried to forget, but never really did.

Devils don’t come with horns.

They arrive wrapped in a sweetness of words and promises dipped in sugar. Lies that glide smoothly down your throat. Charm so radiant, it blinds the voice inside that screams, No.

You hear the warning.

Sometimes, you are the warning.

But you want magic. You want madness. You want to believe that this time, maybe… it’ll be different.

He sold himself like a rare gem. Limited edition. And for one suspended moment, I believed I was chosen not hunted.

That’s the beginning.

When everything glittered. Everything had a sparkle.

When the lie tasted like truth.

When the fire felt like warmth before it singed.

There’s a moment not loud, not sharp, just quiet.

The silence that follows the thrill.

When his voice still echoes in the air, but your skin has gone cold.

When you realize: you weren’t dancing.

You were being swayed.

He spun spells from words to Diamond-cut lies polished into jewellery. Every omission dressed in velvet. You saw them shimmer. Then you bit down anyway!

You thought you were immune. Different.

Steel-willed. Not so easily fooled.

But he never came from the surface. He came for the gaps. The pause between your sentences. The ache behind your smile. The door you didn’t remember leaving open. So he slithered in.

You told yourself it was chemistry.

Hunger.

Fate, maybe.

But something always flinched just beneath your bones.

A quiet alarm you learned to silence until the bruise bloomed.

There’s no betrayal like the one you walk yourself into.

So here you are.

Skin still humming.

His scent stitched into your pores.

You scrub, but it lingers.

It always lingers.

You feel like a sample on a smorgasbord. Another thing he tried, tasted, discarded.

And the worst part?

You knew.

Your brain the one that begged and reasoned now folds its arms, raises its eyebrow, and says:

Well, well. What have we learned?

You laugh.

You want to scream.

You want to unzip your own skin just to escape the residue.

It’s not just that you were used.

It’s that you offered yourself.

Wrapped in longing.

Laced with hope.

Whispering, maybe I’m the one he won’t devour.

Now you bleed.

Quietly.

Poetically.

Each memory a pin under your nail.

And still you crave him.

And that, perhaps, is the most brutal part.

But it wasn’t just him.

It was me too.

The wanting.

The hoping.

The way I stitched lace over red flags and called it romance.

He didn’t seduce me. He mirrored me.

He held up the hunger I’d tried to starve and fed it back to me like absolution.

And now, I don’t know what I want to scrub more his scent from my skin or the part of me that let him in.

His shirt was soft. It had its own comforting pull, like a baby with a pacifier. His fabrics felt safe a type of home that called to your soul before your ears heard the echo.

Taking a moment to find peace in the madness I hide in his bathroom.

Charcoal tiles climbed the walls and hugged the floorboards. No windows. Just an eerie stillness that brushed my skin with goose bumps.

I shivered like someone had jumped on the freshly turned soil of my grave.

It was a warning all on its own...

I just didn't listen.

I fantasize about submerging myself in holy water.

Walking into the fire.

Thoughts sbout peeling myself down to bone to cleanse the stain in my marrow.

About rewinding the night until I slip from his memory entirely.

But that’s not how it works.

There is no time machine.

There is only the pacing soul and the questions that won’t sit still.

Maybe the cruellest truth isn’t that I was fooled.

Or discarded.

But that I handed him the knife, called it trust, and flinched when it cut.

I’m not innocent.

But I’m done.

Done pretending my gut doesn’t scream.

Done painting over warnings with pastel colours.

Done dimming my intuition just because his charm comes louder.

And yes maybe I’ll see a variation of him again.

Maybe the sugar of his voice will land soft on my skin.

Maybe I’ll forget for a breath.

But if I do? I’ll let it pass.

Then I’ll smile.

Thank him for the lesson.

And walk away.

He thought he was the player.

He thought he knew the game.

What he didn’t know is I’ve studied devils in every form.

And now, I can dance to their fire without getting burned.

Or

Maybe I’ve burned too long to fear the flame.

Maybe I still sway to his song

Not out of desire, but habit.

Muscle memory.

Like the ache of an old injury when the weather turns.

I’ve worn heartbreak like armour.

Polished each scar until it gleamed.

So when he came, smooth and sultry,

I didn’t resist.

I recognized.

Because loneliness… it doesn’t always feel like absence.

Sometimes it becomes air.

Essential.

You learn to speak silence.

You learn to perform survival.

And I’ve always known how to deliver the perfect performance.

So what’s one more Devil?

What’s one more dance?

At least he lied looking me in the eye.

At least the fire warmed me…

Before it burned.

They say everyone has a price.

As if gold’s the only currency.

But we sell ourselves for words.

For the right ones, at the right time, in the right voice.

For the illusion of being seen when you feel invisible.

We don’t fall for the Devil.

We fall for the mirror he holds.

And when the music ends…

When the silence wins…

We don’t break.

We walk.

In smoke.

In embers.

In soot and skin.

And still

We stretch our wings.

Because even burnt wings

remember how to fly.