Stained Wings
Like a bee to honey.
Previous Post: Biting An Apple on Sunday
Rare Food part 2 coming at some point. Probably.
One pill makes you larger
And one pill makes you small
And the ones that mother gives you
Don't do anything at all
Don’t believe in me. Doubt my goals. If you saw me in the electric chair smiling, would you still hold my hand? The grass in greener over there - trust that. Turn your head and walk towards the horizon where your dream dangles over the cliff’s edge. I’ll watch from the lightning chair while writing love stories about how The World always wins and how it takes courage to care. I’ll write that once you jumped from the cliff’s edge, the breeze from the descent blew your hair in a way that would’ve sold shampoo to a homeless woman. Now you can now lay happy in your grave. Your compliments like yanking up drain cover in a sink full of ambition, progress, goals. Leaving those holy characteristics to spiral into sewer sludge.
And this chip on thy shoulder, restless frantic ambition like an addict stalking through the night desperate for a sliver of sunshine. Ruthless hunts for what he needs, feels he needs. Intuitive desires. Like a jungle cat. This habit, wild enough, is attractive. Flies to shit. Bees to nectar. Doctors to broken bodies. It’s why the Angels come visit.
Angels come into your life smelling like a spring morning. Angels come to console the pain. These angels have such good intentions! Great plans of actions to ease the intense emotional states and the first is to sit behind me, rub my neck before moving to the shoulders & trying to smoothsay the chip into nonexistence.
“It’s okay.”
“Relax.”
Other tricks like plush lips, soft hands and a voice with the exact tone to lure a wildling in to society. Then he’s domestic. Walking around. His breathing is easy. Calm, controlled. They’re in the field at the top of his yard, heading towards the tree line when she walks in front of him and he see’s there’s a black stain on her white silk and it’s not ink from his pen but something more insidious, like poison to a well it’s ruined the entire thing as it’s all he can see, taste. It becomes a place for the obsessive mind to focus on.
“There’s something on your back.”
Her head lifts up and she’s still turned away from me. Ears perked. “Hmm?”
“Your gown, there’s a black mark.”
Her fingers twist on an arm already twisted next to her rib and tries to feel for the spot. “Where?” Her whole body starts half spinning around, neck craned like it would be able to see. She’d have to break a collarbone to be able to see that far back. Where there’s a will there’s a way… Marilyn Manson breaks ribs to suck his own dick.
“Towards the right of your spine.”
Her neck whips the other way. Hair flailing in the process. Nails scratching and picking and searching. “Did I get it?”
“No.” Black stain getting larger. Timelapsed mold.
Pastel hues melt into October as the veil of Goodness is lifted.
My friend mentioned this a few days after the angel came. “Her dresses have stains on them.”
“What do you mean?”
“All of her dresses have a stain on them. You haven’t noticed?”
I hadn’t noticed but told him some people calls scars on the body, ‘stains’. He laughed, frowned, said he knew what I was doing. I laughed, frowned, told him it’s best to let me make my own bed. He shook his head and pointed to the front of her pants, to a spot right on the thigh where a big black spot was laughing at us.
