The Mark of Heaven's Absence
I love a girl called Heaven. She would take in sinners such as me. With long, flowing, strawberry hair that fell to her back, a symbol of her untainted naturalness, and she would welcome others whose hair is singed, bleached, cut over and over again in years of desperate change. Her hands are silky soft, despite all her years of endless work, endless sacrifice, endless effort. Those hands cup my face and tell me I'm loved, thumb running over my jagged skin.
How is she still so soft? Still so kind after every hardship she's gone through? And how am I not the same. What keeps her so sweet while I'm still rough and rugged? I try not to dwell on it. The green of envy is an awful color to plaster on the pink of sweetness.
Often as she lays with me in bed, I find myself unable to sleep. I watch her perfect form shift with every breath. She's perfect. Too perfect. She cannot be human. And yet. That's what makes her so. That effortless perfection, perfection unknown to her. She does not see her own halo, even as I lay at her feet and worship her, even as I brush her pure pink hair, even as I sing the gospel she taught to me, she will never see her angel wings.
Ironic then, isn't it? That she was so accepting of my devil's horns.
I am a sinner, impure and sacrilegious, dirty and demonic. She knows of this. Sees my fangs and wings and pointed tail. My natural purple hair I've kept short for so long. And she doesn't mind.
She sees me and doesn't cower. She lets me brush her locks, then accepts the brush and brushes my own. She allows me with her when she's most vulnerable, even as others tell her it's a sin of the highest kind. Her holy lips connect with the temple of the damned, and it burns hotter than any of hell's flames. How she warms my icy shell. Even as her holy tears burn my hand, I wipe them all away just to see that smile.
Her smile, bright as the sun. Oh how I love her, every little thing she does seem blessed by God itself. Every perfectly baked loaf of bread, perfect stroke of a paintbrush, perfect existence.
I wonder what she thinks of me. Does she tire of perfection and revel in my mistakes? Does she wish to be a sinner the way I wish to be a saint?
I'm afraid I could never answer that with her absence from me now. All I know is that I miss the girl called Heaven. I wonder if she misses the boy called Hell.
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