every move i make is violent.

i viciously rip my headphones from my pocket,
tear paper from its bindings with clawed fingers.
i toss and turn,
i drool and spit.

people ask why my bones creak
like the rotting foundation of an old house,
why my hands are never clean
no matter how long i wash them.

i keep my mouth shut.
i go about my business.
no one needs to know why
my eyes are never still,
why i jitter and shake.

but there's a thickness in my chest that contorts itself,
twisting around my lungs
and weaving through my ribs.
it threatens to burst into the air,
feeding on the horror onlookers feel
when they see the me that is not human.
the reason why.

i am starved.
i want to feel *****,
to squeeze myself in both hands
and feel my humanity ooze out from between my fingers.
the thickness in my chest grows restless,
and my bones continue to creak.

i remain silent.

i shot an angel
out of the sky.

as i ran through the trees
to see my handiwork,
i remarked at how easy it had been
to aim for the wing.

"angels do not need bandages,"
my grandmother always said,
"and god does not get scraped knees."

i am not a religious person,
angry at this 'god'
for coveting immortality
in his palace,
but i am not usually
a violent person.

resentment led my hand,
aimed the crossbow
at the holy creature
and sent it tumbling,
twirling downwards.

as i reached the clearing,
the world was aflame.
the angel's burning eyes
met mine, and,
seeing as i held the crossbow,
held fast to me.

it expected me to aim,
to take the final shot,
and end its life,
but i had no plans to do so.

i instead edged closer,
crossbow held
but not aimed,
and stared.

the arrow was long gone,
burnt away
by molten ichor.

the angel slowly stood,
wing now healed,
and stared back.

time did not pass.