run across the orange shorelines where the greatest empires have fallen,
and kiss the waves of the salty sea in hopes of resting your clumsy pulse and frivolous thoughts.

stretch your legs.
lithe up like a prideful little boy before a rigged game of 'the floor is lava'
and run!

run like your laces will never untie and your loaded veins will never misfire.

run through the realms of yellowing pages you cling to,
full of ball-point metaphors and crisp, eloquent descriptions of the beautiful feelings you've trained yourself to hate along the way.
i beg you to get over-friendly with your paintbrush when we reminisce this time.

run.
full-fledged, snot-nosed, scared-shitless-grinned
sprint!

run to silky cotton bedding drenched in the stench of your maladaptive daydreams;
peppered with layers of insight we've yet to discover,
and two cold pillows
that can never seem to sing your static head to sleep or fully embrace the weight of your bruised shoulders.

run like you can feel for once;
like a curious kid who's never seen a map or compass,
he just zigs and zags through the seemingly endless wildflowers at full speed as he pilots the backyard in pure and sincere bliss.

run to sun-drenched golden fields where the night sky tints itself blue to succumb to its favorite shade of darkness,
and your breath settles low on the tips of the tall grass like the fog growing over a prehistoric low-land,
and the stars twinkle like lake-thrown pebbles about to let you decrypt the gleaming secrets they hold...
and everything comes clear
and cool
and calm.

run free
and fierce
and nameless
like it's the only thing you've ever known,
run until you reach me.

angels.

angels who miss their wings at 3 am when they feel more out of place in this body then before, angels who need pain to bring themselves out of their dreams, who ink themselves with words only prophets would understand; angels who have the most ordinary jobs like bus drivers and paper boys, people see them and think about them for moments too long.

angels who turn to drinking and smoking, trying to forget the feeling of their wings pushing air behind them as they flew. angels who can't avoid the call of the sky and become pilots who are always drinking coffee because the caffeine reminds them of the golden ichor that was once flowing through their veins.

vengeful angels who become pilots as well, who terrorize the winged folk to feel powerful again, to feel control again. angels who message each other, fingers trembling as they type out their dreams, trying to grab those memories that are just out of reach, gauzy and filled with blood and silver-tinted skin and golden eyes and so many feathers. angels who live in church basements and see pictures of themselves in the stained glass windows and go unclothed, trying to reach that feeling of purity, freedom.

fallen angels who burn churches, filling their lungs with smoke as they climb to the steeple, not just from reprisal but from the feeling of mutiny. angels who ride out into the country alone with a handful of stolen cash who steal from nearly empty gas stations and throw rocks at the windows of abandoned barns after they've climbed to the roof and back to earth. angels who streak their backs with ashes because they don't have the scars that they should from having their wings torn away and the golden ichor doesnt bleed away and stain the ground like it used to.

angels who hang out in bookstores and coffee shops because they're looking for an oracle or someone, anyone, who will listen to their impossible dreams of flight and blood spattering the ground, of fighting and dying and they can't explain it.

angels with shaky hands who try to find love because there's something missing and everyone tells them that love will help them, and maybe it does, but there are always angels out there who have loved and loved and there is still something BROKEN, something LOST, and it's been pounded into their minds that they'll never know what it is. angels who run with demons and devils because there's nothing quite like the rush of running in the dark, standing at the edge of the city and feeling the wind nearly blow you off as you curl your toes on the edge of the roof, so close to the sky it takes their breath away.

angels.

my body had too many bruises
after loving you.
saltwater soaked scars
and red soaked into my bedroom floor.
i struggled to make my blood look pretty for you,
as it marked streams of crimson down my body.
you said my bruises looked like constellations
you called them beautiful
compared them to the cosmos

i just thought they were different.
something you can't always see,
but always crave to.
i said: “the stars are collapsing. can’t you hear?”
you placed your hand on mine and spoke,
their screams are why i sleep with the window locked shut each night.
their screams are why

i've kept you locked inside.

and i am not sorry for that.

then, i saw his chocolate brown
eyes gazing towards me.
mesmerized- his fuchsia lips
summoned me, drawing me closer.  
his immaculate ivory smile reflected
like ethereal diamonds in my eyes.
was i lost or had i been found?
his fawn satin skin seemed so delicate,
as did his smooth, silky jet black hair.
coral florets glowed among fluorescent orange, yellow, pink flavescent clouds, calm in migration.

he's the one who loves to dress himself in rain.

i think about it every time i get into a car. every **** time. it used to be, how fast can i go? can i time the drop to the ascent?
can i **** myself
can i **** myself
can i **** myself?
i was eleven when i first realized i wanted to die. i was in a hot crowded car with three uncles who i didn’t know, one who caught me changing and stayed a lot longer than he should have. and the air was like breathing hot sand, and i thought i could just open the door and fling myself out into traffic. maybe i'd turn into a bird and fly free on the wind. when i think about cars i see all the ways i could die. i tremble every time i have to get into a car with my father because i know if he pushes me hard enough i’ll unlock the door and end it.
as i was walking to my room on the night of my first suicide attempt, i told my dad i would never see him again. his eyes flicked up from the book he was reading, and murmured out a simple "nice".

somewhere in distant
horizons breathes my muse.
dawn comes to me in a dream.

while the sun's early rays
embrace him
he widens his soft brown eyes, he smiles…

darkness hands me my landscape
in silence as i breathe, staring,
my heart is carried along this imaginary line.

as he sips his cup,
warm within this daylight glory,
the morning adores him and he smiles…

a glimmer, a faint hint of light i see
of grapefruit bubbles and raspberry tea,
like fireflies on the midnight hill.

he strides his fingers across the curtains,
running his hands through his hair, sighing softly, gazing away at
blue morning grandeur skies, and he smiles…

pastels in yellow flow around my scene
and i relish in the comely gold light for at last,
across the distance, we are gazing at the same sun,

and he smiles…

you're flaming. little specks of crimson burn like fire in your heart. your physique melts like *** on a fire and sparks of amber make you glow like a candle in the darkness. magenta lines cross your lips and your skin mocks the setting street lamps and the burning sun.

you're a mountain to me. dwarfing cities below you with peaks that stride above the heavens, attempting to graze the planets if even so slightly.

you are worth becoming the enemy of hell. you are worth every friend you've ever lost to file yourself. you are worth it, because i've never met anyone who loves as perfectly and passionately as you.