Devil

The devil couldn't reach me instead he learned my voice...

Devil
— Zandile Vara 🥀🖤

The devil never touched me—
not once.

He didn’t need to.

He planted himself
in the quiet spaces of my mind,
watered by doubt,
fed by every moment
I learned to hate my own reflection.

He taught me
how to look in the mirror
and see something unworthy.
Something… easy to break.

And soon,
even silence had a voice.

Laughter followed me—
not around me,
but inside me.
Echoing, bending, distorting
until every smile I saw
felt like a knife
with my name carved into it.

I became a stranger
inside my own skin.

And the thoughts—
they never screamed.

No…
they whispered.

Soft.
Patient.
Cruel.

The kind of quiet
that doesn’t rest—
but rots.

The devil never touched me—
instead, he sat me down
in the front row
of a funeral
for the one I loved the most.

I remember
how still the world felt.

How the air refused to move.
How my hands turned cold
like they belonged to someone
already gone.

No tears.

Just an emptiness so deep
it swallowed grief
before it could even breathe.

And when the coffin
began to disappear
into the earth—

something inside me
went with it.

Not shattered.
Not broken.

Buried.

That was the moment
I understood—

the devil never came for me
because he didn’t have to.

He built a home
in the hollow parts of me,
brick by brick,
breath by breath,
until there was nothing left
to save.

And now…

when I speak,
it echoes.

When I feel,
it fades.

When I look in the mirror—
I don’t search anymore.

Because I already know
what’s staring back at me.

Not a victim.
Not a survivor.

Something colder.

Something empty.

Something that learned
how to live
without a soul.

The devil never reached me.

He became me.