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Seven



When you dance with the devil, betrayal is not a misstep, 

it's not some fleeting moment of faltering in the rhythm --- 

it’s the entire choreography, 

stitched into the very fabric of the waltz you thought you could master. 

Every sway, 

every spin, 

every seductive glide 

is laced with deception. 

You think you can outpace him, maybe even rewrite the rules. 

But what you fail to see is that there are no rules with him. 

He drips betrayal like sweat, 

every gesture a broken promise, 

every breath a loaded dice roll.

Lower your expectations—no, 

crush them beneath your heel, 

grind them into the dust where they belong. 

Expecting fidelity from him is like expecting a flame not to burn. 

Agreements with the devil? 

Laughable. 

A contract you thought you sealed with a handshake will be shattered before the ink even dries, 

the clauses rewritten in invisible ink. 

His betrayal isn’t a glitch, an anomaly—it’s his default setting, 

his factory reset, 

the only language he speaks fluently, 

with a serpent’s tongue.

And yet… 

somehow, 

someway, 

we still forget. 

We waltz into that same dance, 

fooling ourselves into believing this time, 

this time it’ll be different. 

How is that not common sense? 

How do we keep thinking we can win in his game when the deck was always rigged against us? 

But then, that’s the genius of the devil’s choreography —

he makes you believe you can lead, 

until you’re spinning, 

lost, 

in a dance you never stood a chance in.

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