i hope my words scrape your throat when you say them to yourself. i hope you read this aloud just to see, reading and feeling them stick in your teeth, reading and wondering whether the pit in your stomach will ever cease, if you will ever kiss someone with ease, wondering if trembling fingers means death or just a life of unease, sitting and trembling and feeling darkness like a weight rolling around in your knees, reading words that scrape and stick in the pits of your favorite tees, rolling around with the grease and the laziness you need to never wash the pits of your favorite tees.
he leans in to kiss you. his lips graze yours, a careful brush, so close but not close enough, as the two of you breathe the same air. his breath is warm, his body is warm, everything about him is so warm when you feel so cold. next to him you feel like ice. and his touch melts your cool skin, and you’re melting, melting, gone. you’re kissing him, your chapped lips on fire. your baby is the sun and yes, you know this is going burn eventually. it burns already anyway. but you’d burn into ashes for him. you’d fade for him until there was none of you left.
his gaze leaves nothing of you. you burn until you smolder every time he looks your way. he’s older than you, and it’s almost like he’s lived so many centuries before this one. and he calls you “my love” and “baby boy” and he makes you feel soft even when you’re sweat drenched, even when your skin tastes like the ocean.
you’re on fire, but it’s alright. / there’s pain in this desire, but nothing’s felt more right.
icarus, your baby is a fire.
your baby is a thousand fires.
your baby is a thousand fires,
and each one is so beautiful,
that you don’t mind
things are getting.
this love is tragic, dear icarus. and although you know it’s going to kill you, or maybe even because you know it’s going to kill you, you can’t stop loving him, and the heat radiating from his skin.
when you fall in love with an angel, you must understand that there are things you will never understand.
- when you first go to run your hands through her hair, her halo will slice your palm. and it will hurt like hell. she will mend it with the touch of one golden finger, and will leave so abruptly that she is gone almost before you even blink. the thing you will see is her at the doorway. terrified eyes, blood stained hair.
(later, she will tell you that she never realized how breakable humans could be. when she explains what it takes to make an angel bleed, you begin to understand )
- ask her about the sky, about stars and suns and galaxies light years away. ask her whether or not the universe looks like a blooming garden. never ask about lucifer - she will become a soldier before your eyes.
and not, do not, donot, ask about god.
do not ask about rebellious older brothers and absentee mothers.
(do not infer about a war you know nothing of)
- in a science class you are taking simply for extra credit, your teacher will be talking about quantum physics. he will explain galaxies and refer to stars as "celestial bodies," but you won't be listening. suddenly you will only be able to think of the way her mouth curls at the sides, of the way her golden skin glows, of all the puckered scars that crisscross her torso, of the graceful arch on the bottom of her foot. celestial bodies are certainly on your mind but they are so much more than gas and light and heat and touch and --- oh heavens ---
when the teacher asks if you are alright, you will flush an even deeper red. supernova.
(at times it is lovely to be in love with an angel. but at other times, it is not)
- beware when you fight, it is like the world is ending. her anger conjures a thunderstorm, and soon the entire country is three inches deep in water. you shatter a picture frame. a bolt of lightning catches the house across the street on fire. you are screaming at the top of your lungs – something about duty, something about god – and there is a crash of thunder that shakes the foundations. the weathermen talk about the storm for days. you flinch and change the channel.
(no matter how right she is, she will always let you win)
- there are times when she won't visit for months on end, and when she finally comes back to you, she is not herself. there are new scars across her chest, and she does not speak. she sits with you in her arms for hours, her nose buried in your hair, and her arms squeezed tight, so tight. she does not cry. you do not cry.
you do(not) cry.
(but you do remember the miles and miles of white scarring. you wonder if angels are as immortal and unbreakable as they think)
( and when you fall in love with an angel – oh, darling. it's too late to take it back, now. )