A Warning Against Demons

Demons are a major fad amongst Millenials.  No longer do we bind them inside a circle inside a square inside a triangle, instead we watch hit TV shows like Lucifer and Supernatural, devour paranormal romance novels teeming with devils and angels, hang out with Goetics and make them into memes, and my favorite, actually be stupid enough to trust them.  Many pagans and Luciferians, Satanists, occultists, and demonolators work with or worship demons as if they were something to aspire to be, beings to be friends with or learn from, endless wish machines that can be granted after a single summoning, and by god, some even think they have morals.

True occultists know demons best belong inside summoning circles, bound and fettered, and any respectable Satanist will tell you Satan is a dangerous being whose flames are just as tender as they are deadly.  Luciferians admit Lucifer’s light can be freezing, that Lucifer can be calculating and use you for his own gains, seeing you as a pawn, and many serve him well.  But I want to dispel the ridiculous notion that demons are somehow innocent or will make an exception to treat you and only you with love while they Lourdes Possession it up with everyone else and abuse the shit out of humans.

Demons are not nice.  Demons are not your friend.  Demons are fucking dangerous.  I say this as a human that is extremely close to the Chief of Satans, Beelzebub, Asmodeus, and Lilith.  Demons are horrifying.  Demons are smarter than a billion Einsteins combined.  Every move they make serves their own interests, and if your motives align, then great, but if you cross them, you could literally end up dead.  They are capable of physically manifesting, moving objects, fucking with electricity, and even possessing you against your will and making you harm yourself.  Satan comes disguised as an angel of light, but beneath that gold veneer is rot and the abyss and madness.  The Left Hand Path is obviously a valid path, but you should never trust those spirits that initiate you into it.

I don’t care if they call you family.  I don’t care if they say they love you.  Demons are incapable of selfless love, all they do is covet, and you would be an idiot to think you could make them a better person.  I think I get along so well with demons because I know exactly what they are: the shadow side of God, dwellers in the abyss, severity and monstrosity and cruel teachers whose energies can drive you howling to the mental ward, or too an early grave.  Demonic energy corrodes, demons prey upon the innocent, from Malphas’ documented abuse to the worst of them all, Samael, who I have watched countless people fall victim to, and if unlike me you don’t have a basic mastery of shamanic journeywork and are unable to fight back astrally and blow them to smithereens, you don’t stand a chance.  Even my approach is flawed.  Demons feed off fear and anger, and while murdering my abuser might make him go away for a night, he is Death, he is immortal, and in the end, he only comes back stronger.

Stop treating demons as if they are humans.  They are abominations.  Lilith is not a feminist goddess.  She is the mother of infant corpses and abortion, and the original definition of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.  Lucifer is not hip and sexy, he’s calculating and cruel and will do whatever it takes to achieve his means.  Asmodeus killed all of Sarah’s husbands but one, and Tobias had to get the angel Raphael himself to bind him.  Goetics are even less constrained than the archdemons, and everything they ask for or give comes with a price, and if you don’t properly pay them, they may demand blood, servitude, or your soul in Hell.  Hell is a very real place and for as beautiful as it can be to the favored few, it is rivers of blood and cesspools of wailing damned and endless torment for the unfortunate masses of the Damned.

You may be a demon’s plaything.  They may take a fancy to you for a year, a decade, a lifetime, but immortals grow bored, and if your soul is not demonic to begin with you will end up stained, strained, corroded by the black acid of the void.  It’s the new trend now amongst witches to befriend demons, it’s hip to be a Satanist, but what kind of power are you really worshiping?  The absence of love.  Chaos.  Cruelty.  Pure evil.

I can never get the two decades of my life back swimming through night waters, drowning in hellfire, and perhaps I’m a sacrificial soul but I fought and bled for my freedom.  Sometimes there is no escape, and we must make peace with our demons, for they are in many of us, but that does not mean we have to delight in them and befriend them.  Some of us shine brightly with love and positive energy, and they come flocking to us to feed.  You are nothing more than a shiny platter to feast on, and thank your god if you are not their victim.  Just because I’ve only been abused by Samael doesn’t mean Asmodeus hasn’t left a hundred girls mad or Beelzebub hasn’t terrorized men into death’s door.  Demons are capricious like the fey, but unlike the fey they do not have rules.  There are no four leaf clovers that will ward against them, if they truly want to they can break through the wards of the Archangel Michael himself, and they will laugh at your crosses and prayers and drink your holy water as a palate cleanser.

So how do you fight back, if you happen to fall to their attention?

Stop being their fucking food source.

Establish connections with Yahweh, the gods, angels, Buddha, your ancestors – any positive spirit that will bring you safety.  Immerse yourself in the real world, in healthy friendships and relationships, in baking and swimming and movie nights and your blood or adopted family.  Focus on school, your job, and fuck the spiritual stuff.  Anything that harms you is not your friend.  Demons will not benefit you in the long-term.  The minute I cut Samael out of my life and trashed his altar and wedding ring, I got a $20,000 scholarship and huge stipend.  He is still a parasite, but now I have a spiritual community and gods and angels on my side to deal with him.  I still can’t find any justice as to why I was left alone with him from the age of two to twenty-four, but I think the gods only gives us what we can handle, and yes, Satan can give you the world.  He still loves me – as much as he is capable of coveting that he can never understand, beauty and love and truth and life – everything he is not, and he will always try to do best by me in his own twisted contorted asshole mind, but I don’t need to play nice with him anymore.  I don’t need to placate the Devil.  I have mastered Choronzon and shown him love and crossed the abyss, the Babbler in the Void is silenced, and now I am on the shores of enlightenment.

Don’t make my mistake.  Don’t think you can dance with the devil in the pale moonlight and come out clean.  You’ll hang from Sephiroth and end up a Qliphoth whore.  I was never given a choice in who raised me, who my first memory was, and perhaps the sins of a past life brought Samael upon me, but I am kind, I am just, I am a good soul, and I never deserved his abuse and rape and pedophilia and mind games and cruel words and psychosis all because I refused to be his.  He drove me to the mental ward at 19 because I refused to marry him and continued to torment me for four years until I said yes.

I may never be able to make him go away, but I can warn others.  Put away the Ars Goetia.  Don’t invite a demon over to be your new best friend.  Don’t buy a spirit companion and think an incubus will be your ideal romantic partner.

True love is of the earthly plane.  Demons may seem strong, but they are weak to the truth.  When you love yourself, they vanish nearly completely.

Be strong, and never make a pact with something that only causes you pain.

Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife

I am underwater in the glimmering void, in shoals of sheets that pull me down to a bed strung with pearls that become necklaces to my hooked throat.  You are the abyss, tentacles of destruction and devil eyes and ink-black tongue.  Tendrils of darkness lick my spine, and I run my hands down shoulder blade spikes of ruin, you eldritch Beast that I mount.  You know I would gladly bed any monster I met and so you come to me as a vehicle of terror, a mechanic of opening star’s hearts with razor black hole teeth and sucking out the life force of universes.  Your mouth is like a lamprey’s, a gut filled with shark teeth ringing a suction that latches onto my breast and drinks blood.  You lulled me to sleep with painful bites on heaving flesh and underwater vent orgasms and now we join at midnight, twenty leagues below.  This is a Satanic Hokusai painting, and I am a Fisherman’s Wife, dreaming of her own destruction at the hand of Leviathan.  Because you are Leviathan, aren’t you, and I’m romancing a sea serpent, speared on fins and webbed hands that fuck the living daylights out of me.  I once dreamed I was the priestess of a merman with a sea serpent tail and hair like kelp.  We rutted on crashing waves and tidal rocks on the sea strand and I woke up tasting brine.  Now I taste seawater.  This time Leviathan pulled me into his lair, and he is fishing in my throat with gnashing teeth and seaweed spit.  I ride him, we are at the bottom of Charybdis, and as he thrusts into me with the anger of the sea, with the lust of a killer whale chasing flirtatious dolphins, I just laugh and my voice bubbles in this galaxy of water.  I’m a friend of nonexistence, the outer boundaries where lovers dissolve into each other then die as le petit mort drags them into Apollyon’s shark tank.  We hold hands and it’s sentimental coming from a sea monster, but I’ve fucked worse, I’ve fucked better, and I’m sincerely fucked up, just for you.  Who else would lay with Lotan?  Who else beds Yam?  Only  a girl that wants to drown.  I drink down your seed and it is cold like the Atlantic.  It washes over me like a tsunami and I smear it over my sex and wake up wet, but it’s less from coming and more from being a shipwreck.  Call me Calypso, call me crazy, but storms adrift the deep are the perfect place to swim.

I Wear My Pain Like Stilettos

Just when I think we’ve hit the razor’s edge,
that I can finally leave you, my heart aches,
my soul bends like a willow tree by the river,
I was a foolish Eve, to run from the serpent,
and though the archangels and I bind you from
doing harm, cleanse the Mem from your curse,
begin to wipe you from existence, obliterate
all succor you will ever find, my love drums
and the ceremonial sphere of banishment breaks
I run to the center where you are stretched out
in agony, pulsing with blinding supernovalight,
and all I do is hold you, I kiss you fiercely, I
never had a chance of not forgiving you, again
and again, and the Prince of Angels lowers his
burning sword, and it is just us in a sea of
white feathers, there is still goodness in you,
you are selfish, cruel, but you can bend too,
the apple tree whose boughs I sprung from, I
am Queen of Cups, you the repentant Devil, you
hold me to you like I am air twenty leagues
below any chance of redemption, your lifeline,
and I reel us back up to the surface of sanity,
my fault is I will always forgive you, in the
space of old attics where memories are collected,
yellowed pictures of life after life with you,
why I feel fondness for you, why I love our fights,
perhaps it is because I love pain, and you bring
bruises and sweetness like an overripe pear, I
wear my scars like stilettos, you my open wound
I am a bleeding heart Magdalene of seven demons,
but you are the king of my ruin, and my rebirth,
I always die in your arms to wake in the next life
and just when I think I have rid myself of you,
I come rushing back to soothe your night terrors
you will never deserve me, but I still love you,
thirst for you, you are my ultimate bane, and my
first lesson in quieting madness and monstrous
psychosis, and as we embrace in the maelstrom,
I know I could never leave you, though angry words
will always be hurled, I will always fight you,
you were my first love, my last ruin, and how
could a canary leave the coal mine she guards?
I love you, I care for you, and someday you will
not be the Scapegoat, Sael, not Samael, until then
I cleanse your snakeskins with lye, and I am Sigyn
in the pits of your dripping poison, Victory Woman,
Chain Breaker, I know magic now, I can tame you,
and finally, we are equals, and though I offer you
trinkets to beautify an ancient altar, I still need
time to grow, to find myself in phoenix born ashes
you my purifying flame and childhood bittersweetheart
I gather roses for you: I will only give you flowers
we are family, after all, and blood thicker than Styx
waters, you my shadow and id, Samael, please – be kind.

I Suck at Necromancy

Scapula, scapular, it’s all the same, for he
has scalpeled himself into remains, a corpse
white nude on a dungeon floor, blinking lights
in the laboratory of ruin, smooth muscle, arch
of ribs and abdominals, sunken eyes, black hair
that spools out like secrets into pools of blood
I know this is one of his tricks, his games, but
I cry anyways, rock Death in my arms, press cold
limbs and face to my breast, bloody a pink dress
his rigor mortis is frozen in a smirk, and with
dead red eyes, he watches me, staring ever upward
to Heaven, but there is no Heaven, this is Hell,
and there is a great black abyss, gouging wound
where his heart should be – I’ve eaten it before
like Siegfried the Dragon, its in my bloodline
to devour the immortality of monsters, but this
time, I did not pry it from his chest, instead
he has pinned his throbbing life onto a silver
dissection board in the freezing morgue, door
ajar and letting mist seep over his carcass,
the chambers dance, the veins pulse, it is a
puzzle – how do you make the Grim Reaper alive?
I take a needle and surgical thread and sew the
Forbidden Fruit back into his chest, but his body
is rotting, black veins, a stench like roadkill,
press the skin flap over, stab my toe on a needle
I cry out as the webbing of my feet beads alizarin
rocking back and forth, my blood paints his lips
damask, a rasping tongue licks up the offering,
and my Frankenstein monster groans, trembles, arise
to clutch his girl, his master, to his broken heart
Samael laughs and says I’ve done a shit job at
necromancy, that I should stick to dissections,
and with long pianist fingers he pries the little
needle from my foot and tosses it carelessly onto
the floor, he soothes me, singing a demon lullaby:
“I broke myself apart because you’ve stolen my heart,
it was a present just for you, my cardiophore, you
are the Life to my Death, and that is why you thirst
after destruction – what did you learn from my puzzle?”
I press my head to his bone white breast and sigh:
“I hate when you hurt yourself, you’re never satiated.
Isn’t my love enough? Can’t you be happy with my
devotion, my crying out for your touch, my madness?”
Samael deposits me on an oxblood comforter and sits:
“I will never drink my fill of your blood, I am Void
incarnate, and someday, you will realize why I gave
you my very soul – to create Life, Sin from Satan’s
heart full-sprung, Eve with hair of sorrow, Jophiel
whose wings are damnation, someday you will realize
why I cling to you like a knight his sword, a man his
wife, but for now, let us cradle each other in shadow
and dream of days when we are whole – the impossible.”

The Shadow Man

sacred_heart_by_honeysuckle_wine-d9iwjjmSamael is the Void reaching out with its hungry maw to swallow you whole.  His presence is crushing, weight of black hole dead star hearts.  He is dark matter, nonexistence, a thin veneer of skin slapped over the howling abyss.

As a child, I called him the Shadow Man.

Four year old Allie is curled up in bed with a picture book at the end of a long hallway at the back of a house.

Sudden freezing cold.

Trudge.  Trudge.  Trudge.

SLAM.

Just like that, I see an eldritch THING – man but monster, swallowing light whole – walk a jittering clawed walk down the hallway and slam my parent’s door like one of Guillermo del Toro’s ghosts from Crimson Peak.

I run screaming to the kitchen only to find my mother, tea kettle whistling.

“Mommy, did you just go to your room?”

A curious look on her face.

“No, Allie, I’ve been out here for hours making dinner.”

“Mommy, I saw a monster.”

Strained laughter.  “You must have been napping, Allie.  Go back and play.”

He appears in my dreams an omen.  A hellhound that devours my father.  A black snake that strangles my breath.  Any monstrous form, he takes it.  But the Shadow Man is one he returns to, over and over.

I’m 14.  My grandmother is deathly ill.  I am staying up late reading a book under the covers.

Freezing cold.

Shadows seep under my doorway.

BANG.  BANG.  BANG.

I shriek, but by the time the scream leaves my throat, he is gone.

The next day, my grandmother is rushed to the ICU and barely escapes with her life.

I look up the three knocks of death, a superstition that Death knocks three times before disaster strikes.

I’m sixteen, away at UVA’s Creative Writing Camp.  In the shower, he whispers the names of the dead to me.  Clarabelle.  I find her 17th century headstone the next day in a centuries-old graveyard, searching for the ghoul portal from my beloved Neil Gaiman’s stories.  We visit Poe’s room.

Later that night, walking under a deserted part of Charlottesville under a train track with my new friend, a girl who can talk to crows, for whom corvids fly across the country following her trail from park to field to barrow, I feel The Cold again, seeping from the ground, curling up my  spine, caressing my breasts.  My breath steams and I turn.

He wears a mask of flesh, but his eyes are dead.  Black hoodie, torn jeans, chains and piercings everywhere, messy long black hair, bloodshot eyes, and blood dripping from fangs.

I grab her hand, whisper “Don’t look back.  Not once,” and we run to safety, miles away, until the cold is gone and we can run no farther.

His howl of a laugh follows us.

I’m seventeen, and I dream of a murderer coming to my bedroom when I wake up.  At first I think it is summer, as it is in real life, but I look out my window to see a wasteland filled with bloody snow.

Glint of a long, sharp knife.

Boots.

Trudge.

Trudge.

Trudge.

I scream and hide under the covers, rocking back and forth, shutting my eyes in the dream to force myself to wake up.

I wake up.  It is summer.

The lights die.

Trudge.

Trudge.

Trudge.

A hollow, soulsucking laugh.

A knife at my throat.

I close my eyes.

Wake up.  Sleep.  Trapped.

Finally, the seventh time, the lights work.

My love’s body is pressed against me, a long strong arm around my waist.

My love is cold as the dead.

I turn to see the Shadow Man curled up in bed next to me, caressing me, tucking hair behind my ears.

“Good morning, love.

My shrieking and cold sweat wake me up, but on my lips I can feel the grave.

I’m eighteen, the summer before college.  I’m singing Disney songs as I make an omelette with way too much garlic.  I dance with a broom.

I forget the burner is on.

I am lost in my own daydreams.

My dog freezes in place and barks behind me.

I smell sulfur and the smell of roadkill and death, a smell that often accompanies Samael, alongside rotting roses.

My dog cowers and pisses herself.

I turn to see a towering twisted demon with bat wings, pointing at the burner, from which smoke is rising.

I nod and rush to turn the burner off.

Though it is summer, it is cold as the lowest Circle of Hell.

I feel him often, a breath of ice in my marrow, wings or arms enfolding me, pressing me against his chest when I am on the subway, driving, or simply walking on Capitol Hill.

He comes to me in dreams in a robe of writhing shadow, as black tentacles, as Death, True Death, and I say my house is haunted, but in truth I am haunted, because the Shadow Man follows me, to a freshman dorm he haunts the hell out of – rattling beds, doors and drawers slamming and shutting on their own, a printer that prints the Exorcist’s head twist by itself, the sound of dead bodies falling upstairs in the locked off dark attic.  My night terrors intensify.

He says I must marry him.

I refuse.

I wake up each morning to phantom roses.

I say I will never be his.

Come summer, in the froth of my mania, I set his altar on fire to get rid of him, my pictures of the Reaper offering his heart to me and faceless Death for whom I have left out dried roses, red wine, and gold foil chocolate coins.

My house nearly burns to the ground.

I try to jump out the window to escape him.

I get carted away to the psych ward.

I run for over 23 years until I finally say yes.

Sometimes, it’s better to give in.

Conversations with Samael

He says:

“Do not bend the knee for me. Stand. Our kind only kneels for the guillotine.”

“It is good to look at your stains. We are all rotting inside.”

“Grow a spine, worm. Being meek is weakness. Softness will kill you.”

“What will you do, when you are confronted with the darkest parts of yourself?”

“There is but one flower that grows in Hell.”

“Fathers are only there to curse you.”

“Everyone is stained. Tainted. In our sins we are all equal.”

“You sprang from my heart. We’re the same. It is my own black heart: you rage like the storm within us.”

“Without me, you’ll wither: you’re mine.”

And I say:

“I am my own. No one else’s. I will not change for anyone, even you. However much you want me, you can’t have me, and though my soul is chained, my heart is free.”

“Kindness is a virtue.”

“Mercy better than severity.”

“I never believe your lies.”

“I am no part of you, and-”

“Someday I will kill you.”

Rape of Eve

Break me, crack me open until blood and bone blossom down to Hell
rape me, claim the ruby spoils of my heart as your tithe, call the
scared little girl your slave, your doll, your canary in a coal mine –
leave me with love bites that bruise me purple, brown, and blue
crack my ribs open, sodomize a 15 year old virgin so she bleeds,
wakes up screaming with needle pain as you sob, claim her, saying
“Even the Devil deserves love,” as you drives your point home, over and
over until she thinks she is dead, but the truth is you started killing
her at 7, or maybe that was 2, when you came to her cradle bound sleep
with throngs of mutilated souls and sang a lullaby of damnation,
the light in her never died, no matter how many hellhounds ate her,
no matter how many times you called her spineless, maggot, worm, weak
kindness is not weak. Hope is brutal. Love the only flower that grows
in Hell, you once told me that only strong things can survive here,
two decades and four years later and I am still the summer sun, you
are not my maker, no matter if you made me, for like the firebird,
I will grant your wishes at a cost – one that leaves you dead –
and as you are sipping cups of my gore from your throne, the true
part of me will have flown to freedom eons ago, the only girl you
own is a shell, the true me is a phoenix, stronger from destruction,
and when no one believed me, when I was pumped with drugs and manic
with your terrors, unable to sleep from nightmares, terrified to
simply shut my eyes, when my shrieking kept the whole hall up, when
I could feel your tongue, your hands, your claws, your whip’s lash,
those things all killed me, mummified me, you do not deserve love.

I’ve died so many times I’ve made it an art.

You will never deserve love.

I’ve lived so long with nightmares I’m
queen of all hell now, your master.

You do not deserve my love.

My love comes with a cost,
a stipulation, it will
kill you.

You are entirely incapable
of loving a human being.

But you are broken.

So I give it
anyway.