I have stared into the eyes of the devil and they are metallic and they belong to a machine. They aren’t even eyes: it’s just teeth. They look so smooth and soft, like you want to pet them as if they are the hood of new car. They jut out and they turn and they feel like gums rubbing against each other in perfect harmony.
A hell harmony, that is. These kind teeth eat. They don’t want to be petted. Like a grinning dog, bearing its incisors with a low growl, this machine doesn’t want to hang out and talk pleasantries: it wants to fucking consume everything. It wants. It turns into itself so it can swallow anything and everything into it’s heated core, turning it into liquid nothing.
Don’t let my fingers near it. Don’t let my fingers look at it. Don’t let anything near it. I know we need to recycle. I know this. Don’t let anything touch it. No person, place, or thing should near this thing: it will turn your thoughts to jumbles, willing a small or large massacre as it mesmerizes you with its turns. Your mind will wander to the sordid: what if I put a toy in there? What if I put a book in there? What if I put my hand in there? What if I lick it? What if I tickle it with my penis?
Do not. Do not let yourself near it. It all starts off so innocently, the smooth grinders rubbing against itself in pleasure, in a slow pur that you would assume to be pleasant. A toy rolls around on its surface so sweetly until it is snagged under with a soft pop.
Do not touch it. Do not go near it. This is a moving Pandora’s Box. These are the teeth of hell.