"If Satan Was Beautiful"

The moment I saw her, I knew I would love her one day. For she mirrored perfection and beauty to me. Simple and complex and breathtaking and complacent and weak and strong and careless and fanatical and everything in between. She was everything—everyone—at once.

And I loved her for it.

She was beautiful. Her eyes were the most expressive I'd ever seen. They were brown. Not the dull dung/black that eyes can be, but pure auburn . Shining and beautiful and priceless. All the luminous gems in the bruised earth dulled next to them.

Our eyes met when we came with our parents that day. That very first day, the restaurant smelling of heat and overly eager girls' perfume. And we smiled, knowing one another in that inexplicable fashion that we did. We were both being reborn in our own ways. Young, impressionable and easily shaped; we took comfort in each other. We would be formed together out of the ashes of our self-destructive family. We would be beautiful.Or so she told me. And as we grew into maturity, the invisible potter that was to shape us had molded us into one intricate and frail piece. But in time, the accidental slips began to show.

We were both black hearted and young; careless of others. We wanted only to have cruel fun. At our enemy's expense, at our friend's expense, but never our own. No, never our own. We had too many things to protect, he and I.

But she believed that he was the victim.

But I changed.

So one night she left me, my little ebony heart broken and torn. I laid, trembling and bent, unconvinced of where my world had gone. I had loved her absolutely, shared my soul with her. In a minute, he had snatched it away and left me.

In all my vehemence, I knew that I had loved Lucifer.

Her beauty, her perfection, was no longer real, no longer tangible. Her eyes of deep oak were orbs of hatred and malice. Her golden hair, which had looked so chaste, so innocuous, were nooses—leaving me hanging. And she told me softly that she was no longer mine, but I knew I would always be hers, smiling sweetly all the while.

She was, after all, untouchable...

Maybe if my morning star was not beautiful, I would not have loved her. Perhaps if she didn't have brunette hair and charming honey eyes, I would not have fallen; only to end up crushed; obliterated by the evil that lay in such deceiving beauty.

But Satan was beautiful, and I have loved her.