i keep dreaming of angels, of their massive, winged hulls lined with the scars that they earned, like medals for tattered soldiers, when they crash-landed on earth. (they were sent down to keep us safe; to kiss the heroin-addicts in their sleep— but their skin cracks in their ache to escape, back to the heavenly and the divine) i keep dreaming of angels, of their natural tendency to destroy. and in the darkness of the nightmare when i wake, i keep seeing their shadows burned like tattoos in my retinas, blindingly bright. i keep my hands held in front of me, praying for salvation or an apocalyptic decimation.

I say, “I’m not a nice person,” but you just shake your head. You tell me you never want to hear me say that again. You say, “Just because you’re lonely, it doesn’t mean you’re bad, and just because you bleed a little too often, it doesn’t mean that you’re mad.” I say, “I’m not a nice person,” but you tug on my sleeve. You say, “Then how come you’ve always been so goddamn nice to me?”