Not About Angels

Just about anything made me erupt. Any little noise or phrase I didn't expect would send me leaping across the dinner table, claws around someone's throat. I was quite the lit stick of dynamite, and everyone else was too much tinder for the nest I lived in. I hated them, I loved them, I hated them. I had no way of knowing between up or down anymore. It seemed like my hourglass was being flipped and flipped and flipped by someone so bored they convinced me I wasn't even human.

My friends up and left. They caught one glance of me, stood up very tall and strode in the other direction. My pillow was the only one that heard me, and the worst part was everything that ruined my life was entirely my fault.

My head was banging and so was the secret drawer upstairs. I get so emotional and so hollow, but I feel like I orchestrate everything. Maybe I needed that gone. 

I knew it was easy to be found out.

I knew it was easy to have it ripped away.

I didn't know how easy it would've been to strangle him in that moment.

I didn't know I'd be staring at the same powerful eyes again, the ones that killed me into becoming the same exact person he was, only I didn't have the same wings. 

This is why I'd never have a child of my own.