My Demon's Face

my demon holds the most unusual face

he has a kind smile, and a soft voice

oval nails, well-trimmed

and arched brows, as if life is a surprise to him.

when he exits the building

he holds the door for the old lady,

the grumpy old lady that I always avoid,

and in the park

you’ll find him passing the ball

to the careless boy with unlaced shoes,

and feeding the birds,

or saving the snails,

taking them up from the alley

with care, moving them swiftly

in the grass to safer land.

my demon doesn’t change shape

when he visits me.

he’s doing his work

clinically, methodically,

challenging my every conviction,

unearthing each pillar

from the foundation of my mind,

drawing the curtains to my dreams,

and turning on the brightest light,

the one that reveals all imperfections,

scratches, blemishes, and stains.

and, as the sun rises again,

my demon smiles and leaves my mind,

busy with his own things:

the lady, the boy, the birds, and the snails…

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