The Devil’s in My Bed, But He Pays Rent
He showed up wearing red boxers and a grin made of unpaid sins,
said, “I’m just crashing for a week,” but now he’s got a drawer and a toothbrush.
He eats my cereal, fucks like a god, and leaves sulfur in the sheets.
Every exorcist ghosted me, every priest sent a bill and a broken crucifix.
He throws house parties for demons and they all smell like sex and gasoline,
but he washes the dishes and kills spiders, so I tolerate the brimstone.
The Devil’s in my bed, but he pays rent–never late, always loud.
He cuddles like a furnace and moans in Latin.
And I’m starting to think Stockholm Syndrome tastes like cherry lube and fire.
He flirts with my nightmares, flogs my self-control, calls me his favorite sin.
Said I’m the reason he stopped dating witches–they weren’t mean enough.
And honestly, I feel flattered every time he bites me just to mark what’s his.
My neighbors stopped making eye contact once the walls started bleeding,
but my orgasms last three minutes longer since he moved in,
and no one ever told me damnation could feel this fucking domestic.
He lights candles with his tongue and calls it ambiance.
Tells me hell’s overrated anyway, then drags me to heaven with one hand on my throat.
And I might be cursed–but it’s rent-controlled, and the devil spoons like a saint.