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The End of My Angel

He told me he believed in angels, in beginnings; in second chances.

Clenched fists and shattered glass,
boiling points reached and promises broken.
His world revolved around the score,
and until blood was shed it was never settled.
Stab him with a knife and he’d come back
swinging with ten more–
but he didn’t scare me.
Said I scared him.

Streams of parties specked with
empty loving– tangled sheets and no goodbyes; heart always flying
to only come crashing down.
I mended his heart when it was broken,
left pieces of me webbed in the glue
so I could always be in him and he’d never
forget me, take me with him everywhere.
He wanted me for himself, he wanted to
love me, wanted me to love him.
I did love him; but as much as he argued,
his life had no room for me.
So I kept my distance, drew the line at friendship.

Bloody hands and blackened eyes,
swollen lips and bruised pride, he
fiercely protected those close to him at all costs,
perhaps his life.
I regress– he does scare me in a way.
His lack of caution for his own life
and willingness to put it on the line of mortality
over and over make him both admirable
and terrifying; it makes his life vulnerable,
and I dread the day that it will be thieved from him.
From me.

The day came with rain. Heavy teardrops
that matched those on my cheeks, and ran
through my veins to my shaking hands.
I watched through a sea of suit jackets
and fitted dresses and black spider web veils that adorned the pews
as they lowered him to the ground, unknowing
that strands of my heart remained intertwined
with his, even if it had ceased to beat.

He said he believed in angels and beginnings,
but all I can see is the end.





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