Sinister
Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe
He was born in the hollow between lightning strikes—
a stutter in creation,
a breath the universe should have swallowed back.
His heart beat out of sync with mercy,
his smile rehearsed in mirrors that never fogged.
He learned young that goodness is a costume,
and wore it well.
Polite. Precise.
He spoke the language of empathy
as though it were his native tongue,
but he had no accent of the soul.
He moved through the world like a sermon delivered in reverse,
turning warmth into weaponry,
love into leverage,
faith into filament for his web.
And the world,
ever hungry for charisma,
called him charming.
Then—
one night, in some unholy symmetry,
he met her.
Her laughter was a fracture—
a sound like breaking glass disguised as delight.
She looked at him the way a flame looks at oxygen—
hungry,
recognising itself.
Their eyes met,
and for the first time,
he felt seen.
Not loved,
not forgiven—
but seen.
The abyss had found its twin.
Together, they moved through the world
like a waltz in a mausoleum,
hands entwined,
souls mirroring the exquisite wrongness of the other.
She sharpened his cruelty;
he polished her deceit.
Every lie gleamed brighter for being shared.
They did not build; they hollowed.
They did not create; they consumed.
Their harmony was dissonance perfected,
a duet of ruin sung in perfect pitch.
And when they laughed—
oh, how the world shuddered.
Because there is nothing more terrifying
than evil finding comfort.
They were not fire and gasoline;
they were gravity and the void—
two darknesses converging
until even the stars forgot their names.
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Poetry Anthologies by Britt Wolfe:
