300 words a day entry seventeen
I live in anticipation of angels; wings and gregarious and wisdom and stern faces etched with quiet suffering, it’s why I really liked you, I mean, I really, really liked you. I guess,
you reminded me of angels.
Up close angels are hard and yet they yield, their bodies are like steel, their fingers lifting strands of hair like breath, they are a thousand stars.
I imagine this is it: The sun is gone, the rain is gone. I quit living months ago — on February 13 — I’m dragging ghost feet across grains of sand, I harvest corn husks, silverfish, termites, hard potatoes, little rocks. Other things nobody wants.
The winter this year, it will come, it will sweep hard wind across the smooth surfaced, bare branched city, and it will freeze my hair in clumps. I don’t mean to be so dark.
I live in anticipation of devils, their hard eyes unblinking in the darkness just beyond where the murk thickens, where the edge of the sky holds the moon, cradled and sleeping little dreams of rape and torture. I wish it wasn’t so.
I am not angry. I know how they tried to take the dreams, how they come to pluck them with their little biting teeth, I am not angry, I know how they come to tear away our sleep. We are not to blame for our disbelief in magic, we have been let down by heaven, we have been shorn, sold and ravaged, we have been locked away and lied to, we have been fucked with the unicorn’s horn.
There is this broken connection to God now: The one thing I hold on to is that one time I did hold.
I am not repentant, I am not a sinner. I am loved by the winged ones.