Demon behind the mirror

Hairy-chested.
Egg-bodied.
Lantern-jawed.
Awkward fuck.
Thick waist.
Skinny legs.
Clown feet.
Neck beard.

This is my demon
Exorcisms aren’t quick
I’ve made thousands of tiny cuts
to excise the parts of me that recognize him
and he still spies on me
from behind the mirror

Without clothes, I am snail without her shell
Darkness swirls where my legs meet
The only place where we’re still connected
Jagged purple scars throb under psychic skin

The last cuts will hurt the most
Do I have to pay the man with sharp knives
to open me,
and flay me,
and Frankenstein me back together again,
all to suture my injury into the physical flesh?

Or can I conjure a vision powerful enough to heal my soul but leave my body intact,
of Venus upon her shell, bathed in light, sporting twig and berries?

I worry that if I choose the former,
the demon, my demon, will not die.
He will always be there, behind the mirror
waiting for me to wonder
if we’re not so different after all