dear Angel,
I want answers to that night when I smashed all the second-story windows and pretended I was a nightingale, I want to know why I thought I could be avian and why my wings were clipped by longing. more than melodies, I want to be punished and I want to know why I could leave him alone with feathers and think it didn’t matter.
and if you care at all, then tell me, Angel, why I silenced all the bars on my phone like messiahs between closed pages to leave him screaming in the dark, bleeding in the dark, left to find utopia in a shallow grave. why I could never leave him to find solace in Elysium, why his voice still found me hours away when I thought we’d said good night. why it was the necklace I gave him, warm on his driftwood skin, that opened his eyes and lungs and freed him from the blue. why was it my “hello” that saved him,
why am I a broken savior?
I hurt him.
Angel, tell me why I can spit razorblades and exhale the words he least wants to hear when the sleepless nights hesitating between my shoulder blades have made me just worn and fucked up enough to do whatever I can to make sure I’m not the only one who cries alone.
I know I hurt him.
tell me how I could do it— is it really ice that fills the hollows of my bones? because sometimes that’s how it feels, when no amount of hurting other people can ease the pressure in my own lungs and I still can’t believe I could be so cold, that the impact of my voice could crack ribs, that he could be at once larger than life and smaller than my heart.
yet the echoes from his scars found me when I thought I had finished peeling each memory from my skin and then I realized I would always fly home to him,
and that was all it took;
he embraced me like a prodigal Christ and I wondered if has always this masochistic.
love,
his Lady Lucifer
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