Expectations and Existance

It’s a speck on your lenses that you’ll never get off

As your mind runs its track you can hear it growing

Every lap expands the shatter and crack

Until you get caught up in the cobweb threat

Limbs tangled up along those rounded strands that you hold up to your eyes to see around the four looping circular corners.

Thinking, ‘What a sick gift this twisting fissure is’

While all those whispers around you slither,


Into open ears.

That reverberating hum, chanted in the paint splattered cathedral.

“Fix it.”

So you do.

i. when you fall in love with an angel, you must understand that there are things you will not understand. 

ii. when you first go to run your hands through his hair, his halo will slice your palm. and it will hurt. he will mend it with the touch of one golden finger, and will leave so abruptly that he is gone almost before you blink. the last thing you see will be him standing in the doorway, a terrified expression on his face and blood in his hair.
(later, he tells you that he didn’t realize how breakable humans could be. when he explains what it takes to make an angel bleed, you start to understand.) 

iii. ask him about the sky, about stars and suns and galaxies light years away, about how the universe looks like a blooming garden. 
do not ask about lucifer, because your angel will become a soldier before your eyes. 
do not, do not, do not ask about god.
do not ask about rebellious older brothers and absentee fathers, do not infer about a war you know nothing of. 

iv. in a science class you are taking simply to get the credit, your teacher will be talking about quantum physics. she will call planets “celestial bodies” and suddenly you will only be able to think of the way his mouth curls in at the sides, of all the puckered scars that criss-cross his torso, of the graceful arch on the bottom of his foot. when the teacher calls on you and asks you if you are alright, you will flush an even deeper red. 

(at times it is lovely to be in love with an angel. but other times, it is not.) 

v. when you fight, it is like the world is ending. his anger conjures a thunderstorm, and soon the entire state is three inches deep in water. you shatter a picture frame. a bolt of lightening 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 house. the weathermen talk about the storm for days, and you change the channel. 

vi. then there are the times when he doesn’t visit for months on end, and when he finally comes back to you, he is not himself. there are new scars across his chest, and he does not speak. he sits with you in his arms for hours, his nose buried in your hair and his arms squeezed tight, so tight.
he does not cry. you do not cry. 

you do not cry. 

vii. when you fall in love with an angel—oh, sweetheart. it’s too late to take it back now.

—  on falling in love with an angel || m.m.c

From time to time, I go into this trance,

I get this never ending, all consuming thought;

I want to be better, I want to be more.

The voices in my head scream their demands, like a song on
“Pick up your grades, clean your room, dust off the dirt and grime gathered in your weary smile lines, and in the scar above your right
eyebrow from yesterdays failure.

New day, new chance, new me.

But here I lay once again, covered in failed attempts and an overwhelming dissapointment.

And now, I’ll pick myself up, and rinse off my shame ridden eyes, and tear stained cheeks,

and I will try, try again.


you want to talk about angels? 
fine. let’s talk about fucking angels.
yes, they are beautiful, but they burn, and if you get too close they will singe your soul. 
yes, when they let you get close enough, they are lovely to the touch, but so are poisonous flowers.
yes, they are curious, but they are also soldiers, and they would just as soon destroy something as they would learn about it.

and yes, yes, yes, i know you think you are in love with him. but remember darling, you cannot look at the sun without blinding yourself, and you cannot kiss a star without burning your lips.

—  do not, do not talk to me about angels || m.m.c 

one. you take your coffee black, and drink it over the course of too many hours. afterwards, your breath smells like dirt from a grave. when you kiss me, it tastes like decaying things. (i shouldn’t like it about you, but i do. oh god, i do, i do, i do.)

two. your shoulders are broad enough to carry the world, but you won’t. you’d let it fall into the sun, let it catch flame, and then smile with that unbearably toothy grin and say, “well, darlin, wouldn’t you look at that.” (i’d burn for you, honey, believe me, but i don’t know if the rest of the world would.)

three. your eyes are like riptides, grabbing me by the ankles and pulling me under. i tell myself that i don’t like it, i don’t like going under. i don’t. i don’t. (but if i didn’t, then i would be holding my breath.)

the other thing. people like us meet once in an era, honey. we break down a civilization or two, we burn a library, we start wars and never stick around to finish them. it’s very greek of us, isn’t it? (but if you’re my achilles’ heel, that’s alright with me, sugar. i’ll take your riptides and shoulders and graves any chance i can get.)

—  three things i like about you, and the other thing || m.m.c

Its a beautiful moment when you realize you’re in love with someone. That you’re willing to do whatever it takes, no matter how hard or how far-fetched it might seem; that you’re willing to make it work regardless. I will move mountains and bend over backwards, if it means changing myself, whatever it is.