The Salesman of Life

The Devil doesn't shatter windows. He leaves them cracked— just enough for the cold to slip in. He doesn't storm the gates. He waits in the garden with a voice like honey and hands that never tremble. He doesn't bring fire. He brings light— just dim enough to blur the edges of the lie. He speaks in almosts. In verses cut from context. In promises dipped in perfume. He gives you what you've always ached for: belonging, enoughness, the illusion that your emptiness is sacred. He doesn't sell sin. He sells medicine— the kind that numbs but never heals. You've waited long enough, he says, like a lullaby still playing in an empty crib. He doesn't hand you the apple. He paints it gold and places it where your longing can see. He speaks your need like it's a memory. Not take— but hasn't it always been yours? You bite not from hunger, but hope. Not because you're wicked, but because you're tired of being hollow. He doesn't push. He listens. He learns your ache and waits. Until your soul folds in like a letter no one bothered to open. Then he replies— with warmth, with timing, with just enough to make you believe it's God. You don't reach for the lie. You reach for the healing it mimics. And by the time it cuts you, you've already thanked him. He is not a monster. He is a mirror. Polished. Kind-eyed. Patient. He doesn't drag you. He just waits for you to lean. Just far enough. And the rest— you'll do yourself.