when she felt his touch
she knew that there was no place like home
but the feeling was cut short
when home slapped her across the face and walked away.

i think i often represent the butterfly i so often speak of
frail and weak in every step- my plain brown wings are just like the papery disgusting skin i want so badly to break out of, revealing my clearwinged beauty. but i've adapted to this form- i've changed. who cares for being disgusting- better to simply scare away the predators with my big nose and buggy eyes. who cares for being unloved- i do, for solitide is survival in this concrete jungle.
but i know better.
i am no graceful, gentle butterfly. satyrs are still lovely, despite being different, and i am not lovely. i know that these white wings cannot and will not be silenced. the beating drum behind me says otherwise. i am not butterfly. i am a falcon, and i do not dare hide behind a mask of a face. no-

i fight and claw my way out of it.

he was her fallen angel.
his raven black wings which fragmented the light while they flew
shined onto her pale shin and forced her to shield her eyes
but no matter how much she begged
he'd never take her for a ride.
but one day, he finally lifted her
higher and higher they went,
they grazed the clouds and kissed the sky
and then he dropped her.
and only then did she really fly.

she sat by the stake
scorched feathers fell to the ground
and her talons fell

he strongly gripped the nape of the boy's neck
and in his lips, he found nirvana.
a paradise filled with raindrops and waterfalls he could bathe under for eternity
and pixies dancing in the trees
but the fairies stared at him and their smiles turned to frowns
their eyebrows creased and their hands reached for him
claws extended
and they hissed '******' into his face
so he pulled away and said
"I'm sorry-
it just wasn't for me."

i closed my eyes tight
and in the glimmering stars
i found your soft hand

The necromancer danced on her grave. The ground shook with every step the witch took, rumbling the ground beneath and making the corpse she had planted cling to the cool dirt for dear death. And then, the dirt began to give.

Sunlight burned on the girl’s blue skin, turning it a ghastly shade of porcelain like Wednesday Addams. She rolled over in her grave, and closed her eyes, refusing the inevitable fate of the undead. But her wings started flapping, and she rose up, the witches hand clawing into her back and dragging her back to life. And as the screeching of the megalomaniac forced her wide eyes open and the dried ancient blood away, she wished she were dead.