The sweetest angels are the ones who were raised in cages.
Free from corruption, sin and blood
Draped in holy white, with every stain covered up.
Perfectly pristine.

But how can an angel fly without room to move her wings?
The bars cut through them as they grow, mangling the delicate feathers until clots of crimson blood are the only thing holding them together.
And it feels good
to feel its warmth and see its exquisite colour, so pleasant to the eyes
Dried blood is ugly and cold so she thrashed around to spill more, each drop as precious as a jewel and as beautiful as the sun.
And it feels good
to destroy and to hurt.
Though they mock her, she doesn’t care.
Because it feels good.
Because how can an angel fly without room to move her wings?

But if she can’t fly, then she can’t be an Icarus
Or a crow that smashed into a window, thinking it was a portal to another world
and then plummeted to its death.
But then she can’t see the universe
or the beauty her wings have to offer.
The only universe is the one in her brain and I want to leave I want to leave I want to leave
Maybe a caged angel set free will become a demon but I want to leave.
Even if the fallen angel smashes through the clouds, a portal to another world
and plummets to its death
It is worth it to taste the breeze.
I want to leave.

You tried.
So I guess I can forgive you.
But what use is a rebel angel against a god?
You gave me courage in whispers and gestures of affection
but it wasn’t enough.
I’m sorry, but it wasn’t enough.
Courage is a bandage over a festering wound
but maybe I want it to fester.
Maybe I want to jam my fingers into it and press until the rot reaches my heart
and reaches my brain
and reaches my wings.
Courage is resistance
but maybe I don’t have the will to resist anymore.
And even if my resistance is successful, I know I will still be crushed.
There is no place in this world for an angel with broken wings or worse,
a broken head.

Except the cage.