Blissfully, (she) sings to me: "It’s the devil that I love.” Three A.M.’s back again and the girls are fast asleep, tucked into their beds up above. Down below, I have nowhere else left to go. Six grey hairs and the fangs of another night playing uncle in this home. What I fear—what I know—is that these girls will never know. All their prayers on their knees won’t stop men just like me from preying, male gazing, drink-lacing—from turning coddled lives to living hell. Oh, young American girls in young American rooms with young American dreams in young American wombs. No matter how much you pray, no matter how much you hide, there’s a dorm, there’s a church full of American boys drunk on American thighs singing: If it’s the devil that’s in me, then it's the devil I love. Cross my heart and hope to die. If it’s the devil in me, then it's the devil I love. One below, and nothing up above. Three A.M.’s back again. I’m dialing digits on my phone. ’Cause it’s true: even men just like me, raised properly, respectfully, have something hiding, something fighting to drag us all below. It’s the devil I love. Devil that I love.