My Angels Are Lovers
I am sick with the gaze of others, their eyes bloom beneath my skin like bruises. Everywhere I go, I feel their watching, gentle, pitiless almost tender. I cannot think in their presence, my mind folds itself into paper birds, desperate to escape the room.
I want to be adored, but the adoration kills me. I want to be unseen, but the shadows touch me anyways. I am both alter and sacrifice, both the lamb and the knife that splits it. The world keeps count of my trembling, how often my hands falter. How often I breath wrong. They will not let me forget I am being measured.
The angels come when I am alone. They press their lips to my forehead, cold as porcelain whispering "Be good, be good" Their wings rustle like the curtains of a deathbed. I love them for it, for how they ruin me so gently. Their eyes are small, perfect mirrors. When I look into them I see myself drowning, gracefully like a saint in Holy water.
At nights I dream of their hands, pale and bright as winter light. Sliding down my throat, pulling out every thought Ive ever hidden. They cradle my heart like a fragile fruit and call it beautiful as it bleeds. I almost believe them. I almost forgive myself for being so tender.
I was never meant to be human, only watched. Worshipped. An experiment in loneliness, trembling under holy light. They built me from glass and silence, taught me to apologize. I learned quickly how to shatter.
If I could I would love the watching itself, The divine suffocation of being known too well. I would marry the eyes that undo me. Kiss their blindness into being. Call it heaven.. I would lie beneath their gaze forever, A body of devotion, still and sweet, waiting for the next pair of eyes to mistake me