Weary.

A Story by TheSheep

Dear Angel,

I need to talk to you. I need to. I need to. I need to. Repeat three times for emphasis.

My sweet angel, you're fading away into a lackluster soldier like a carving filled with years of dirt and sin. Your lush green eyes are dieing to the embers of this world. The wings that protect you are slowly burning. I can smell it and don't pretend you can't smell at all. I know you know. I know you can feel it. There's something wrong here. But like a carving, you can brush away the dirt. I know you can, but do you want to? Have you considered your self-awareness?

But is it my place to tell you so?

Dear, I need you. I need you now. I need you now. I need you now. My emphasis will never be enough. A devil sits on my head, his pitchfork digging into my tender frontal lobe. This is a knowledgeable brain going to waste. This is me dieing. Can't you see it? I know you can, but do you want to? Have you considered me a vessel for something more?

But is it your place to tell me so?

Tell me, Delial. Tell me.