I'm in love with my shadows,
but their affections have never been sweet.
Dying dark feminine,
demon since the day I was predicted,
but it hits different to watch my wings fall from my back,
tumbling to the ground,
clattering on the cold concrete without so much as a kiss goodbye.
I am a prize to everyone but my girl.
She likes to win,
and I'm wavering,
wishing I was thinner, or smarter, or sweeter, or slightly more like her ex,
who extracts the sense from my head and lives rent free in the space my brain used to occupy.
I hate that.
I hate that I have lied a thousand times about how desirable I feel,
how deserving I am of love and light.
I lost my wings,
way back,
my shoulders ache in their solitude,
so lonely,
so lost,
and all I can do is tell them another lie.
Perhaps that is my sin.
Perhaps that is my ticket to hell.
Everyone breaks my bread,
drinks my blood,
stirs up my veins like cheap noodles and seasons them with their memories of me,
offended by the taste but swallowing with selfish eyes all the same.
It's okay that I'm dead.
I don't mind.
It saves me from the crying.
Oh,
the crying carries on for many obnoxious hours.
I'm only crying because I'm menstruating.
I'm only crying because I'm not pregnant.
I'm only crying because I'm marrying a good Catholic girl like I wanted.
I'm only crying because I'm not marrying a good Catholic boy like he wanted.
I'm only crying because my father will not come to the wedding.
I'm only crying because I don't want him to come to the wedding.
There is no wedding.
It is August,
and I am bored.
I want to be a bride.
I want to be a mother.
I want to be an heiress.
I want to be a Barbie doll.
I want to be a marine biologist.
I want to be a pop star.
I want to be a Goddess.
I want to be the demon they think I am.
I want to be the angel I know I was.
