The Devil You Know

They always say the devil you know is better than the one you do not.

But no one ever asks why he knows your name, why he sounds like you when the room becomes quiet.

Maybe he does not arrive with horns, fire, or an offer written in blood.

Maybe he wakes when you do, brushes the same teeth, wears your favourite shirt, and explains, quite reasonably, why today is not the day to change.

Maybe the devil you know knows every wound because he was there when you made it.

He knows which memories to touch, which fears to call wisdom, which cages to rename comfort.

And perhaps that is why you have never managed to escape him.

You have been searching behind doors, inside people, beneath every misfortune—

when all this time the devil you know might be you.