Your memories had an aftertaste of codeine and old books.
They were cleverly masking the splinters festering beneath my fingernails.
Filling themselves out with false food, bloating my dreams.

The story never delicately unfolded. Rather, it was launched at my face, unexpectedly one night, by a fat angel.
I felt the shovel hit before I saw it coming. It was cloaked in golden hair and white teeth.

As the images shattered and slivers of cotton and green glass sliced my emotions, I was left with the type of clarity only a two day hangover can offer.
Not all birds can fly.
Not all doves are white.

And of all the monsters I've known,
Love is the most beautiful.