Letters from Hell

Dear Penthouse Forum…

I can’t believe it happened to me.

No, not what you’re thinking—

just another night with the devil and me.

Cigarette ash in the sink,

red wine on my sleeve,

and a mirror that swore it was clean

while showing me things I don’t want to see.

The moon laughed outside my window,

said “baby, you’re burning pretty tonight.”

I told her the devil’s my therapist,

and the bill comes in flames and bite.

Every wish I’ve made tastes like salt and sin,

I’m halfway to heaven, but they won’t let me in.

So I write this letter with a shaking pen,

hoping you’ll print it again and again.

The devil cries in me,

but damn, he’s got rhythm and style.

We’re two lonely souls on a deadline,

dancing through denial.

Every kiss turns to smoke,

every truth a beautiful lie,

and I can’t believe it happened to me—

but it did, every night I try.

I met a saint in a bar on Tuesday,

said she was taking confessions for free.

I spilled my sins like cheap liquor,

and she poured them back into me.

Now the room smells like regret and roses,

and my heart’s just a burnt-out key.

So yeah, Dear Penthouse Forum,

maybe I’m just a ghost that learned how to breathe.

It was romantic in a hellfire way,

like room service from Lucifer himself.

Five-star melancholy, served rare,

with a side of “save me from myself.”

The devil cries in me,

I swear I hear him pray.

He says, “Dear Penthouse Forum,

she was mine today.”

And I laugh between tears,

because I finally see—

the joke’s on me, baby,

and the devil cries in me.

Sincerely,

yours in flame and forgiveness…

A fan from below.

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