Last night, I dreamed I was a devil, possibly the devil. My secret: Lucifer, a tiny little homunculus devil, lived in my mouth and performed his dark arts from inside my head.
In the dream, Lucifer had escaped. He careened around the dreamscape wreaking destruction and sorrow on everyone he encountered. I chased after him, hissing “Lucifer, you get back in my mouth!”
I needed my demon back. The demon in my mouth was the source of all my power.
Perhaps it’s unsurprising that immediately upon waking, I engineered a fight of unprecedented nastiness with The Fella, using nothing more than a few choice words. We recovered quickly and sorted out our feelings, complete with forgiveness and smooches, but I’m still ashamed of the unkindness that popped unbidden from my mouth, and appalled that he responded the same. Petty nastiness stings badly enough from strangers or acquaintances; when someone you love and trust springs it on you, it’s simply cruel.
Since we’ve always talked out even our most fervent disagreements without cruelty or invective, this five-minute sojourn into spite shook us both badly. Balancing the bitter aftertaste of venom and shame is the sheer sweetness, the loving grace, of being earnestly forgiven and of earnestly forgiving. I know how lucky I am that he’s in my life, and I never want the demon in my mouth to endanger that.
I am participating in NaBloPoMo.