To Steven, eat shit you balding binch.
Plummeting through the sky, endangered angel falling
Without wings she soars and spins down, down, down
Heaven above watches her spiral away shrinking and thinking
Falls are an unfortunate function of nature’s forces
But her deadly dance is too fast, her inclined angle unnatural
To Earth she is growing larger, nearer, dearer
Bones and blood to be harvested as resources, flesh to teeth
She hit the ground and crumpled inward until her spine nearly cracked
And spent some time pondering a pummel six feet deeper into the soil
Along came a man—she always wanted a man to come along—
He carried a weapon unconcealed but peace-tied with words
After years and years of falling, her organs accustomed to the churn
Everything speeding past her grasp
Anything steady and still was bought on sight, became her most prized possession
But payment once, twice, thrice…
“It would mean the world to me”
And so he had the world from her hands
Giving, giving, giving, pleading, bleeding
Time and lifeforce and pint after pint of blood pumped from her pale heart
He presented items of the Earth world but nothing from her Home
She spoke of what she needed
She tried to scream in case he didn’t hear
He was large and his shadow long
Her voice was swallowed by his silence
She shrunk down short and got so, so, so small
Under his shadow, this nagging weight that pressed down
And all around her like a space that resented being shared
She was his but he would never be hers
She clawed at the light daily to keep from slipping in her oil and sliding into night
While he demanded acrylic paintings of a sun scintillating over a sweltering desert
How could he force her to create
But she tried, as a woman always does
Working tirelessly, dwindling
Giving world after world over to him
And precious metals from her home
Would she be gone not after long?
Was this incessant, lonely debt better or worse than losing life alone?
Somehow she felt closer to Death than when she dreamed of digging her grave
Lying next to the man was like being buried alive
His scent in her lungs became choking dirt and trocarizing daggers
Better than ever, in fact
His side of their bed was plush with her plundered insides
The dizzying squelch a gently lulling waltz to his slumber
Her chest was empty but so heavy with longing
Her nerves were frayed at all the ends he cut with his curved blade
He looked her in the eyes as he fed upon her pain
His pointed ends probing, plundering deep inside
Making their way to the heart of her soul
Rasping sweetly poisoned poetry that he was her mate
And when she cried he held her in his ice cold bone dry hands
She shivered and lamented, This is Home now
Along came the day, one fateful calendar marking
Where she asked for intervention from her sisters
(Yea, Reader, the existence of kin for our angel)
Who always answer hear call, who always aid when beckoned
Who hold with arms better built for keeping those broken bits
She learned miraculous trades from these women
Straightened her spine and built wings into her back
Massive things of titanium, adorned with tungsten carbide claws
Which she showed to the man and he stopped dead in his tracks
The impact was devastating
But this new spine would not break
She would not fucking shatter completely
She would solve this senseless puzzle
She would find and fit together the scattered pieces
Why did he crave her vulnerability but offer it no comforts?
And she understood the science and nature of warmth
As she was a daughter of Heaven
Hell-hounding her for that damned painting of it
All the while his blade threatening to cut her from behind
He always liked her from behind
What man is always cloaked in black?
What man has a body of bones alone?
What man adores wounded withering women?
What man frenzies at those wounds like a shark in bloodied waters?
// WHO COMES A-RUNNIN’ FOR THE SCREAMING RABBIT BUT NOT TO HELP //
Despicable words fall from his mouth, Twas “not my intent” to scar
And here is Angel, different in function and in form after meeting him
Dreams sickled and severed,
Dreams HE had demanded of her
And a priceless purely golden band sent back to sender
What other man would lust for a woman near dying
But cast her off so harshly after she found life brightly shining within
Real sun, from her real touchable skin, no paints nor gilded framed imagery
What other man carries a scythe
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