May 2017
angels.
angels who miss their wings at 3 am when they feel more out of place in this body then before, angels who need pain to bring themselves out of their dreams, who ink themselves with words only prophets would understand; angels who have the most ordinary jobs like bus drivers and paper boys, people see them and think about them for moments too long.
angels who turn to drinking and smoking, trying to forget the feeling of their wings pushing air behind them as they flew. angels who can't avoid the call of the sky and become pilots who are always drinking coffee because the caffeine reminds them of the golden ichor that was once flowing through their veins.
vengeful angels who become pilots as well, who terrorize the winged folk to feel powerful again, to feel control again. angels who message each other, fingers trembling as they type out their dreams, trying to grab those memories that are just out of reach, gauzy and filled with blood and silver-tinted skin and golden eyes and so many feathers. angels who live in church basements and see pictures of themselves in the stained glass windows and go unclothed, trying to reach that feeling of purity, freedom.
fallen angels who burn churches, filling their lungs with smoke as they climb to the steeple, not just from reprisal but from the feeling of mutiny. angels who ride out into the country alone with a handful of stolen cash who steal from nearly empty gas stations and throw rocks at the windows of abandoned barns after they've climbed to the roof and back to earth. angels who streak their backs with ashes because they don't have the scars that they should from having their wings torn away and the golden ichor doesnt bleed away and stain the ground like it used to.
angels who hang out in bookstores and coffee shops because they're looking for an oracle or someone, anyone, who will listen to their impossible dreams of flight and blood spattering the ground, of fighting and dying and they can't explain it.
angels with shaky hands who try to find love because there's something missing and everyone tells them that love will help them, and maybe it does, but there are always angels out there who have loved and loved and there is still something BROKEN, something LOST, and it's been pounded into their minds that they'll never know what it is. angels who run with demons and devils because there's nothing quite like the rush of running in the dark, standing at the edge of the city and feeling the wind nearly blow you off as you curl your toes on the edge of the roof, so close to the sky it takes their breath away.
angels.
angels who miss their wings at 3 am when they feel more out of place in this body then before, angels who need pain to bring themselves out of their dreams, who ink themselves with words only prophets would understand; angels who have the most ordinary jobs like bus drivers and paper boys, people see them and think about them for moments too long.
angels who turn to drinking and smoking, trying to forget the feeling of their wings pushing air behind them as they flew. angels who can't avoid the call of the sky and become pilots who are always drinking coffee because the caffeine reminds them of the golden ichor that was once flowing through their veins.
vengeful angels who become pilots as well, who terrorize the winged folk to feel powerful again, to feel control again. angels who message each other, fingers trembling as they type out their dreams, trying to grab those memories that are just out of reach, gauzy and filled with blood and silver-tinted skin and golden eyes and so many feathers. angels who live in church basements and see pictures of themselves in the stained glass windows and go unclothed, trying to reach that feeling of purity, freedom.
fallen angels who burn churches, filling their lungs with smoke as they climb to the steeple, not just from reprisal but from the feeling of mutiny. angels who ride out into the country alone with a handful of stolen cash who steal from nearly empty gas stations and throw rocks at the windows of abandoned barns after they've climbed to the roof and back to earth. angels who streak their backs with ashes because they don't have the scars that they should from having their wings torn away and the golden ichor doesnt bleed away and stain the ground like it used to.
angels who hang out in bookstores and coffee shops because they're looking for an oracle or someone, anyone, who will listen to their impossible dreams of flight and blood spattering the ground, of fighting and dying and they can't explain it.
angels with shaky hands who try to find love because there's something missing and everyone tells them that love will help them, and maybe it does, but there are always angels out there who have loved and loved and there is still something BROKEN, something LOST, and it's been pounded into their minds that they'll never know what it is. angels who run with demons and devils because there's nothing quite like the rush of running in the dark, standing at the edge of the city and feeling the wind nearly blow you off as you curl your toes on the edge of the roof, so close to the sky it takes their breath away.
angels.
