Not Your Angel

“You’re an angel,” you said tucking my hair behind my ears.  You stood eight inches taller than me, but I fit perfectly into the crevices of your body.  Looking up at you, I gave you that look.  It was the one you used to photograph before I would try to rip the camera out of your hands, a feat which never proved successful.  You would hold it high in the air with one arm while wrapping your other around my waist, that boyish grin lighting up your face, causing my determination to remain annoyed to be dissolved into laughter.

“I’m not an angel,” I said.  “I’m just me.”

“But you are my angel,” You replied.

“I’m not anyone’s angel.  I’m not an angel at all.  I’m just a girl.”

But you continued to grin, bringing your lips to mine. I wouldn't argue any longer.

So, I tried.  I tried to be your piece of heaven in the world that wanted so desperately to tear us apart.  I tried to say all the right things, and be smart, and funny, and beautiful, and perfect.  But somehow the things I said never did turn out to be very smart, nor were they ever very funny.  I may be pretty, but not particularly beautiful.  And perfection somehow seems unattainable to me.  Yet you loved me despite my lack of charm and you held me in your arms, whispering sweet sentiments into my ear, and I was happy. 

But one day you stopped whispering to me.  You stopped holding me.  You stopped loving me.  Your voice, which was once warm, became ice cold over the phone.  You would snap at me when I would inquire about your life and then when I would start to cry, you’d apologize before hanging up.  When you held my hand, yours became limp and lifeless in mine.  I gripped ever tighter until the day finally came when you told me that I wasn't your angel anymore.

And it turns out I was right all along:  I’m not an angel.  I’m nothing more than a girl.