Does it matter that I’ve got wings? I can’t fly, they’re broken. Like everything else. I drag them behind me, they don’t show dirt. Surprise, they’re black. Shock, I know. They match. Broken. Like everything else.

My heart, which bleeds all the time, pooling in my lungs. I don’t need them anymore. My soul, cracked and warped like glass once again set on fire, my secrets would pour out if I had any left. My mind, all thoughts stay still in the not so quiet recesses of my mind, a horrible screaming continues there.

I’m not going anywhere, so why do I need wings? I’m forsaken and unloved. Not needed, or wanted. Neither here or there. But you have to be somewhere. I don’t like this place, I don’t like watching you with her. I guess this is my punishment. But, may I ask, what’s my crime? Loving you? Needing you?

Will you string me up and hang me? It defeats the purpose I know. Over-kill, I guess. I can’t help it. I tried, really I did. I failed at life. I’ll fail at death too. I’m not a very good angel.