You clamp my head and say, “Demon, be gone.” You shake me and scream, “Come back, princess.” You flap your arms and dance madly. Your face flames; your eyes steam. My demon is sticky. How you must hate me. When my demon finally leaves, I leave with him.
Each demon has a demon who has a demon, like mirrors in a mirror. When I call you, your girlfriend grabs the phone and hangs up. I call back and call her “cunt lip.” She’s nothing but kindling. I am your demon and you are mine: a loop, infinite.
The word “demon” is story enough. More words are lipstick on a sad demon pig. No one will kiss her. I’ll show you what I mean. Find me in my grave. Ask how I got there. I’ll reach through soil and you’ll recoil. “Demon,” I’ll say.
Jennifer Wortman’s recent work appears in Hobart, DIAGRAM, The Normal School, concis, JMWW Journal, and elsewhere. She is an associate fiction editor for Colorado Review and an instructor at Lighthouse Writers Workshop.