Most people had the devil on their shoulders, whispering the fancifulness of evils that somehow sound sweet.

Evils that could make you question why you ever bothered to be good in the first place.

Most people could flick the devil off their shoulder, ignore its idle chatter and follow the light. Most people had that luxury.

My devil followed me wherever I went, reminding me of the bad, pointing it out in the street, on the internet and in my own reflection. She stared back, menacingly always, ready to remind me of the evils I was capable of, of the evils I had done.

My devil most thrived off my pain. When I looked in the mirror it became harder and harder to define her as the devil and not as me.

I was the devil. It was always me. Written in my reflection.