My demons are made of ice.
My angels of fire.

Both parties walk beside me, surrounding me, but never touching me. Every step is taken in unison, and I can never tell if they are leading me or if I am leading them, but I am too afraid to stop moving to find out.

Sometimes I will hear cold whispers, beckoning me with sweet promises and even sweeter lies. Voices coated with honey, earnestly attempting to persuade me, like a friend with an urgent secret to share. And sometimes I take a step in the directions of my demons, entranced with this idea of a world constructed of nothing but dark possibilities and meaningless words. Galaxies have been built with far less, yet nothing is more beautiful than could-have-beens.

But every time, I feel a warmth tugging me back to the light, and I stumble into the stars. It’s too bright and it’s too hot and my angels are burning and they have set me on fire as well. They murmur, pushing me to the edge of the world and showing me a universe made of sleek metal futures and inspiration. They show me galaxies made of much more than could-have-beens; they are made of could-still-bes.

I see skyscrapers made of hope and statues made of strength. Cars are made from the security of people’s minds and houses are constructed with kindness. The people themselves have souls of wonder.

It’s not a utopia. It’s only what might be.

All of this.

All of this is what I see every time I look at you.

I can never tell if you’re an angel or demon, if you aim to maim or just to kill. I can never tell if you’re a part of my past or a part of my future, if I should look back at the could-have-beens or toward the could-still-bes.

All I know is that I see galaxies in your eyes.

All I know is that it hurts to look into your eyes.

All I know is that when I jumped into the darkness, I was consumed and when I stumbled into the stars, I burned.

My demons are made of ice.
My angels of fire.