She understood the pull between two worlds, the cosmic force that ripped her simultaneously to and from his distant life. And it was painful, but the decision to leap either way was endlessly complicated. The thoughts circled her mind, and she could not escape.
To unbecome herself, after hundreds of years of study, of meditation, of spirituality in the raging winter of her home? It was impossible. It would be as if abandoning a tireless war, in which she was bound to the army of a righteous cause – even with the knowledge of it’s poisonous politics. She had to keep fighting. The distraction that she found in her love for him was only that; a distraction.
It was a unknown element of warmth, but one that she could not help but cling to. He was alone, as was she. Both were part of a mass of bodies, civilisations full of insincere companionship. Amid all who they stood beside, they knew nobody as they knew one another. And she supposed that she could live with that emptiness, as she had known it for centuries. But the thought of leaving him to face this eternal echo without her, was unthinkable. She would not allow him to face oblivion alone, or to be drummed down by those around him, those who saw nothing of his soul.
And ultimately, she did not want to return to the bitter halls of her people, without the knowledge that across the stars – he was there, waiting. And he would never forget her, far away as she was. He would always be a new constellation, in the bleak, dark skies of her decaying city.
there’s always gonna be things that remind you of him.
I’m sorry to say it, baby, but it doesn’t just go away. I like to tell myself I’m wrong. my head is full of thoughts and I guess I like to tell them to fuck off.
tell yourself you did the right thing. tell yourself it is going to be fine. tell yourself you belong to the stars and the sun and the moon, and you were created from nothing but light. tell yourself darkness doesn’t rest here. tell yourself you did the right thing.
I’m sorry, baby, but the ceiling isn’t your friend right now. no matter how long you search for cracks or whisper into the crevices of your bedroom walls, they’ll never answer back.
there is love in the lines of your palm. there is love in the way your eyes light up on Sundays. there is love in the words you sing, and no, you’re not a broken melody.
he doesn’t love you, I know. I know about the way yesterdays fill up your head and all you can think about is all the promises they held. I know that you’re trying you’re trying you’re trying.
and I know that you’ll write about it like a journal entry of any other day, even though it makes your head spin and your stomach lurch.
there’s always gonna be things that remind you of him. give them a new meaning. give them a new meaning.
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.
i try to remember his voice sometimes, hoping that its tucked away and waiting for me in my memories.
i always fall short of it; directly onto his laugh.
but my god, i’ll remember that sound for the rest of my life.
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.
the words are on my tongue, bitter.
they fill up my mouth with
blood & i am so afraid.
i don’t think i can hold it in much
i am sick with longing
a slither in the darkness
that says maybe one day there
will be light.
i have found so much
to be afraid of; this
paranoia has grown
from the seed of a child
to this tangle of an adult.
when your veins are cracks
in your porcelain skin
it’s a wonder you don’t
i learned there’s a difference
between good and bad
in a black and white world
where there’s no room for grey.
i am the grey i am the grey
there’s no room for grey
no room for me.
they come in the dead of night
and take you to an ocean of
white. no matter how much grey
you bleed the walls stay white
white white white white.
it lurks in your bones
screams with your mouth
they tie you down at night
to keep them safe from the
beast the grey that sleeps
beneath your skin
and smiles with your teeth
speaks with your tongue.
so you chop off your tongue
so it can’t say a thing