Diathesis

I am sitting in the chair, writing, in agony. A demon is pinning me there, fucking my head.
Abraxas, he says. I am Abraxas, the demon of lies.

What would you like to know about lies, Cis?
I will tell you about lies; there are white lies, and black lies, and many shades of grey lies. But, some lies are justified, lies told out of kindness, lies that preserve your dignity, lies that spare pain.

Everybody lies.

Maybe this is one more lie, this one just about to come out of my mouth:
In addition to my heart, there are some small organs I want to give to you; glands, sweetbreads, variety meats.
Cissa, for you my heart ripped from my chest. Eviscerated I am and if I could I would plunge my fingers through my chest, rip out my heart, and give it to you, a pulpy mass of morbid diathesis.
Diathesis it is like a susceptibility to disease. It is like all those parts of me there are susceptible to invasion. But, what good would it do to offer Cissa a pile of sick meat?
I don´t know. I just don´t want to lie.