The poor angel with dark black wings pierced into her back.  Fanning out side to side, stretching wider than her own reach, darker than any intent.  Unable to lose them until she gains the understanding of what she bares.  The knowledge she has, the potential, all in rot, upon the velvet black feathers that fall with her every move.  Her entire being aches with the wings, however, recalling back into the past, her mind wanders to before  she had such massive wings, at the time, they had never been a problem.  When her beaming smiles had balanced the dull color.  How even without anything standing out in particular for her, she had overcome the wings, allowing them only to accompany her with warm spirits.  Now overgrown, the unfamiliar extensions, which had always lay gentle, never interrupting her. While the feathered limbs were small, they formerly remained hidden, and maintained a soft appearance. Now, deeply intertwined into her core, along with her body's deepest veins.  The hypocritic angel relies on the wings which she envies, and despises such a great amount.  Both her mind and the charred limbs have always been part of her.  She can't live without them, she could never gain the knowledge to lift the curse, as she continues to use them, despising their existence.  However, what would she be without them?  They are her, they have yet to not be seen as a part of her, and if they were no more, how could she be anything more than them?  They could never part as oil and water do, the thick contrast with a thin barrier.  Because she is the wings, although she may never accept herself as something of which she hates so as she now does as a whole. The mechanisms make her deceitful of all, especially herself, from the hate they hold.  From the hate she holds.  The cursed angel exiled by this trait, she pleads within herself for forgiveness that the blemish be removed. However, it becomes apparent with gravity's drop, that her being is but a cavity compared to the burnt, charcoal wings. The wings are not her, through intent and dreams.  But she is the wings, through weakness and deceit, for the wings control her.  And yet, the endless, gaping wings are something that has caused her to change and mature to such an amount, so why does she feel as if she's in reverse, becoming feeble, and dependant?  All in the fact that she solely holds her charred limbs, and her hazy, charred mind.