My guardian angel is having a cola while looking at me making my life’s decisions.
He wonders about being in the grade C level of angels because he got me in a bad deal.
A deal that will screw him over because I never listen to him.
I rush headlong into beanpoles and walls and closed doors.
I earn bruises and cry.
Cry into the wrong shoulders.
I dive into the dead seas and gasp with delayed realization of lost opportunities.
My guardian angel is highly stressed because I spit out love and swallow hurt. Because I let people carve their names into my skin; names that not just go skin-deep but reach the tissues and damage them.
Because my heart while pumping blood also pumps out my soul.
And to the wrong ones.
My guardian angel is worried that I will accept poison and not even recognize it.
That I will let it infect my blood and spread like sunlight filling the sky.
That I will let them slice my soul into little fragments of ugly deformities.
That I will let them hollow me out piece by irretrievable piece in exchange for false promises of feeling.
But I tell my angel not to worry. My emptiness is not his to fill.
