i am the resurrection and the life
we are made up of dirt. deep dark piles of grassless death. made up of crow feathers and the bodies of girls dumped into the soft, warm, forgotten ground of forgiveness. we are made of cradles overtaken by ivy and crumbling shingles. we are born out of cruelty. the universe does not punish cruelty. angels suffer under the heels of the universe more than anything else. we collapse under the weight and cry out and scream with no mercy. we build wings from broken bones to escape, make halos out of bloody noses and lights punched out of us. you can find us in strip clubs and psychwards and under streetlights. look in garbage bags and in abandoned homes, on hoarded home porches and in sewers and buried under concrete. we sleep under benches and lose teeth to ugly mortal knuckles, suck the blood from gums and cheeks and puke it back up in hotel toilets. we hide in closets, eat broken drywall and lick our carpet burn wounds.
when bees eat cherries, their honey turns red. my honey has turned septic sickly green and yellow, but it tastes sweeter than heaven and instant ice tea powder. i am catatonic in the backyard. i am catatonic on the couch, my hands possessed by god trying desperately to spoon yogurt against my lips. i can give myself goose bumps by stroking my finger tips on my stomach. jesus is a monster and he scares me. i stuff middle fingers under my thighs in the church. i see his imagery and i want to vomit all of myself onto the cold smooth floor. i lay on the floor when my wings are too heavy with suffering. my m*th*r asks if i am praying and i want to be sawed right down the middle of my body. my bones will burn such a hot fire. it will be pure. i will be pure again.
sadly, i will never be a pretty girl. i will never be a girl infact. i sit outside my body. i will never be a girl intact. i am still masturbating on the kindergarten carpet. at times i consider becoming a stripper or a prostitute because i am nothing but a soft body for 20 something years before i begin to rot. i might as well use it. whats the point of saving this flesh prison, a vessel that decays in such an ugly way, that preserving yourself is a fruitless endeavor. by the time the crows rest in my eye sockets i am already decaying. i might as well be filled with stranger's love, so much that it melts my legs a part as i lay dying, the dumpster my freshly dug grave. my girl body will be eaten by the maggots born inside of me, my only heirs, as i am stuffed full of rotten meat. i like to think i never grew into my body because my angel soul is still getting used to four limbs and the lonely hallway inside me. or maybe i am still a little girl inside of myself, rattling around as she cries and cries and bleeds out until it overflows. i don't know what i want to be because of the fact i am so ugly. maybe all i am is cow throats on the killing for or the lamb abandoned in the shit of her mothers.
i love eating cherry lipstick i sink my teeth into sweet colors and drown my face in washed out piss stained lace like its my wedding and my funeral because the devil who rapes me in my sleep leaves circles on my wrists like those angels who had 200 eyes and thats what cam girls feel like and its true that my piss looks like pretty blonde girl braids and i only want to smash my sternum into tiny pieces and bite the bits like they are chocolate covered cherry biscuits and see the blood congeal in between my teath and the chocolate smear like shit on my lips. i feel it all when you stick it in me because my face gets hot like honey, i am a cake in which the ants have burrowed through and when i cut it at the wedding i slit my throat and make a cherry chocolate fountain for the devil to dip his strawberry fingers into. in my womb there is a wounded world. i don't think i will be able to ever let go.
was i a test tube baby? a satanic spawn that crawls with claws and already bloodied palms out of whatever woman was unlucky enough to truly carry me? did i bite upon my own umbilical cord to kill myself? even writing this i can clearly smell the blood and rot and meat around me. is it schizophrenia or an angelic mania? i have dreams of my holy body being bitten and fucked until i am nothing but an amalgamation of the horrid sensations and emotions of molestation. does this make me unholy? do i ask for satan to make love to my ugly mortal body for just the taste of sacred ambrosia? to feel like an angel again while i am trapped in this heavy body with no wings? is there an academy of shaking bodies that cry out in the night, where they can learn to love consciousness again? I don't think I can wake up another day. I cannot complete the self imposed deadlines, I cannot write or calculate or function. i can barely feed myself, I crave hot blood between my lips, and my teeth are already rotting out of my head. i cannot bathe this body because i will scrub away that soft intimate layer that protects the red tissue that mortals are made of. i cannot ease my mortal cravings, because there is no drive to satisfy them. am i a dangling body from a telephone pole? or girlhood remains stuffed into a tree? what is it to be an angel on this earth? am i alone? no mortal i sleep with or see seems to share the same eyes as i do. why are you afraid for people to look at your body. are you ashamed of being so ugly? you shouldn't be. true mortals are much more ugly than our frankenstein husks could ever be. does the light crack through your labia? do your eyes sprout from your scalp and gums? do you feel out of place among such ugly mortals? you shouldn't feel lesser to someone who is so heavy they cannot bring their eyes to the stars and realize how horrid they are.
they think they're so beautiful. but really mortal bodies are so heavy. if you've slept with one you know what i mean. they are so full of blood and liquid and organs and muscle. most angels have had their organs removed when they were very young. we just aren't compatible with the abandoned flesh of god's waste. we are her afterbirth, not her excrement. if an angel's body has not rejected their organs or blood already, they will feel the great tether of the stars urging them to preen their mortal husks themselves. they will drain their veins, starve their stomachs, smash their heads into the pavement, anyway to relieve the aching. this aching is both that of rejection of the ugly earth, and the homesickness of suffering. the trembling you feel in your core to throw yourself in front of a train and have your husk finally shatter and explode. the allure of the cars barreling down suburbia roads to throw yourself in front of, to feel the great pressure like sex against your chest. to push out that stale graveyard air from your lungs and to finally breathe something meaningful.
i get deja vu of angel euphoria where i cannot resist the memories of pink strawberry nightgowns coffee carpets and bright windows full of easy autumn mornings. peace among such tulmultous suffering. sweet kisses of brevity and escapism woven in the repressed forgotten horrors of the baby years.