an angel has white wings because they have not been tainted by the world's colors yet.
they keep their chins held high, hand in hand in a long, unbreakable chain.

red for lust

orange for gossip

yellow for arrogance

green for jealousy

blue for depression

purple for rage

black for hatred

brown for gluttony

pink for self-consciousness

grey for hopelessness

and angels one by one become doused
and splattered
with all colors that aren't white
all different combinations
some with just one
others a rainbow
until the chain collapses
proving to be breakable
and the ones still white
grip tight to their friends and family
shaken and mortified

"protect the angels with white wings" i say proudly as my wings drip with green and blue and pink and grey.
the colors i struggle against the most.
"we couldn't make it
                         but maybe they can."

i want to hold your head in my arms.
run my fingers through your head of soft ribbons
i want to make you feel like you are everything
when you feel like you are nothing
breath slowly with me my dear
trust that i have been through this enough before to know what to do
this is just a moment
and a moment in this life becomes worthless

you wont love me like i love you
thats the honest truth
but let me cradle you in my arms
and whisper sweet tenderness
over and over
so it echoes in your mind
and bounces off the walls of your head
so you never feel unwanted
unloved
again.

your daily meals consisted exclusively of the compassionate ones
and the more they felt for you
the tastier they were

didn't mommy ever tell you not to play with your food?

dense, warm air and sticky grins were prominent during those sunny summer days
tripping over our friends and muffled laughter
grass stained shorts and muddy fingernails
wet, curly locks of dark hair and bare feet squishing against the grass
kids are known to be careless
a big bowl of fresh strawberries is placed onto the plaid blanket spread across the prickly grass blades
and we shoved our hands in quickly to see who could get the huge strawberry in the middle first
some blades of grass stuck right through the blanket and poked our legs hard enough to make it sting but it didnt phase us
neither did our grimy hands as we devoured the delicious fruit.
we were messy kids. the juice dripped down our arms, creating a translucent river of rosy red juice
you licked yours up but i stared at mine, intrigued as the river followed my veins and settled in the crooks of my bent elbow
i couldnt resist slurping it up eventually though
strawberries were always my favorite

several years later it isnt the same
the red river dripping down my arm, following my veins and settling in my bent elbow didnt taste the same as the sweet strawberries of summertime.
the gashes on my arm werent from an intense game of tag with a friend
or from rolling around in the grass too roughly
these gashes were more than just booboos
mommy couldnt kiss these and make them all better
mommy couldnt make them disappear
i couldnt make them disappear
i made them appear
they are here to stay, and not some sticky juices from a summertime delight
they were sticky juices from a wintertime despair.
a twisted mind
a long sleeved hoodie in 90 degree weather
a sad excuse as to why it was a hoodie instead of a t shirt or a tank top
a bit lip to hold back the tears
a friend who tried their hardest, but couldnt notice and brushed it off
a forever tainted mind

whenever someone offers me strawberries
i take them, even if i am filled to the brim or sick of strawberries altogether
because maybe if i overdose on strawberries
my mind will blur
and all the memories of the thick, dark red river of wintertime despair
will all become replaced with strawberry juice
and i will wake up
and it will have been nothing but a fever dream.

life has always been a tough thing to understand. to grip onto.
the tighter your grip was, the stronger you valued your life.
but what if your grip became weak?
what if, no matter how hard you tried to grip the bars of life, your fingers continued to slip?
sometimes, you have no control over how tight your grip is.
i always was considered physically and mentally weak.
not only would my grip become frail,
but even on those days where my grip was strong enough to get my head above the bars,
my tears would fall without thinking,
and the bars of life became toxic and wet
and my fingers would slip
and i would fall.
sometimes it's better with nothing to grip onto.