The Angel of Unlove

I was made human enough to be vulnerable, but angelic too, with gifts of unimaginable empathy, perception, love, and healing.

I have wings arched in my back, but sadly I cannot fly. My wings are beautiful and tender, they remind me of my purpose. I have wings, but I will never fly. I have endless love, but I am never to be loved.

I fall in love deeply and wholly and quickly. It is one of many curses. I am drawn to those with insecurities, those who do not know what it is to be loved, and I fall in love with them. I see this through actions, through speech, and most importantly eyes.

I immediately become a momentary guidance for them. I assure them where they feel their faults lie. I tell them things they do that are inappropriate, so they won’t make that mistake again. I shape them. I banish the broken from them and I teach them the ways of love – how to show it, how to act when you feel it, how to manipulate the negative outcomes of love (the things we sometimes do out of love and good intentions but are in themselves, a bad action), how to cope with heartbreak, how to use love to nurture, and many others.

I will give them gifts on every monthly anniversary, because I know that our time is limited, there won’t be yearly anniversaries, or engagement parties. All we have is the little time it takes for you to be healed enough to be capable of loving others. And I will present to you these gifts, in hopes that you never forget me, and maybe one day you will see them and smile. That is, something at least – to be thought of. To be remembered.

My love is always real, for it needs to be for my loved ones, who I have come to call “Passers”. They need to believe that their is no question in my method, or the love I give. They must feel its sincerity.

The final rule I teach is how to break someone’s heart – what that means for them, how they are hurt by it. It is a selfless act of giving empathy, and it is one of the main reasons I am an angel. I am to be everyone’s mistake – let them ruin me, so that when their one comes, they will know what to do, and most importantly what not to do. 

The distance that comes after our time between us will hurt me, but I won’t be broken. Whoever it was that made me this way made sure that heartbreak would wreck me enough to leave me on that edge, but never to be blown over. Because without me, someone else would have to do this job.

And I almost feel like Death. Trapped. Carrying people into adulthood, into love. But having to have myself used as the test. To see if they can love. And maybe sometimes Death wants to be alive? Maybe sometimes the Angel of Unlove wants to be loved.

Or why give me the ability to love? Why not have me as fake as the love I receive? Does it have to be genuine love? The love that cripples me, mentally begging for the passer to fall for me, as I have fallen for them…

And I love people enough to never let anyone feel this way, and so I will never give up my job. I will be tortured forever, I will bloom those who feel unworthy of love with the water of my arteries, and when they are ready they will leave me, or do things to make me leave them. And I will watch them forever through cloud, I will watch them all grow into loyal, beautiful, beings, and watch as they share their lives with someone deserving. Someone full.

I guess it’s poetic. I empty the vase of my love into someone, and then they are full of love and its ability forever, and that liquid will never deplete in them.

But for me, I leave the vase cold, until one day, scarred even more, my wings further dislodged, I will find that vase is full again. I will sigh deeply, and with sad eyes, I will fall in love for someone so that they can fall in love with someone else.

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‘An Envelope Popped Through The Door’ Prompt

She hand-closed the door softly behind her, to keep it from falling to pieces. She let her strict ponytail loose. She took a well earned deep breath and her insides were treated with the taste of fresh-on-old mildew. “Home”, she whispered. She waltzed then through the dainty hallway, allowing her finger to trace along the many semi-circular hanging tears of wallpaper, like child-drawn waves. There remained only few doors in this framed rubble of a building, and none that separated the hallway from the kitchen. She descended from the pale beige glow of the hall into the skeleton light.

Everything in this home was devastated, but she kept it neat. Closed drawers, levelled and stacked books.. She was an organised woman, now that she had the freedom to be. What satisfied her about this place was her feeling of control. She would leave for weeks to come back and find everything as only a dustier form of its previous self. She felt powerful, finally safe in her own clay-stained hands. It was a rather new feeling of assurance, something she had not been familiar with most of her life. With no mother, she was hastily forced to be wed when she was still a girl.. to a man much stronger than her. And older, too.

But that was past her now. She gazed through the window above the sink, into an abyss of ash. For miles, there was nothing salvageable, and the rest was swept from an orange drift of wind, seemingly like a sandstorm, that hid the rest of the world. She was grateful for whichever bomb that had hit this place, leaving a piles of embers, and erratic poles dotted around. But she most loved that she could feel the mush of compressed ash as she walked.

On the sill. A dead spider. She gasped. It’s legs crooked in agony. She examined closer. It’s face was smushed, as if from weight. It reminded her of him, how he would kill everything in his house, break objects, leave things open and messy but never allow her to clean. Or to leave. She was to rot, as he trumped all over, just to see her squirm.

She cupped the spider, and dropped him into the sink and ran the tap. Brown water came and washed the spider down. Gone. Forever. She wiped the sill clean. Her brief moment of fear had been cleared. She was alone here, in control here, and safe here.

She began her ritual of cleaning. She had brought a purse full of Wypall wipes and a multitude of business-marketed cleaning sprays. She wiped the damaged counters of the kitchen, the frames with no doors, the old mahogany counter-piece in the hall, all along the bannister, up the stairs…

A noise. Right as she ascended the final step. As of a knock. On the door. Behind her. But there was nobody there. She could see through the frosted glass in the middle of the door. Nothing. She gave a plain smile. All but the sound of a footstep.

And so she carried on her cleaning upstairs, and she made everything in every room glean. Her last mission, was to batter the dust of the duvet in the only bedroom. And so she grabbed two corners of it, and slid it off the bed. And screamed.

On the bed. A stain. An ink stain. A lidless pen lay leaked. Permanent black. Her first thought was not to question its presence but to get rid of it. She went to rub at it with her wipe but the ink licked it. And stuck. She dropped it then, and backed away in horror. She had now realised. Someone had been here. Recently. They had stained the bed and killed a spider.

She ran. Down the stairs. Not safe anymore. But there. The frosted glass was no longer clear. 

A shadow. Something. With a top hat. Mad hair underneath. At the door.

“It’s not real…” Perhaps just a gathering of dark dust. It was quite probable. The wind could’ve placed it. She stood frozen on the second bottom stair for minutes, her heart rate slowly averaging as the something showed no form of life. It wasn’t real. She was not in danger, or in the presence of something else. She gave another plain smile. Just a trick of nature. She slumped down the last step.

An envelope popped through the door.

Galaxy Goo

I could crack you open and galaxy goo would slime through the fissures, thick and dark purple and full of little stars.

You don’t even know that.

You have no idea what’s inside of you. What you’re made of. I guess that’s because you can’t see your eyes. Unless you look through mirror. But you and I both know, mirrors only reflect colours. Cosmic magic gets lost in translation.

I have seen your eyes. The first time I met with them, my lonely mind took their picture and replayed them to me – over and over. It connected us in that infinite land of dream and magic and imagination, where we will breathe and fly and implode even after this world has let us go.

You’re heavy. You carry yourself around and you tire yourself out.

Gravity despises you. You’re too hard to hold down. Gravity told Love to break you, so you chained canon balls around your ankles and kept yourself grounded.

That was bad.

You see, dreaming is flying, flying is rising above,out of reach from Shadow, the snappy-stick wetness that moves at night. We sleep to escape it. That’s why we sleep at night.

But you don’t sleep. Do you?

No. You shiver and stare at the stars and wonder.

Oh. Galaxy Goo! That’s us up there! Far from the ground claimed by malice!

I feared for your safety.

But you were safe.

When I turned and found myself deep within Grey depth and not alone, I found you! Oh, wicked truth! Beyond imagination! You are of Grey as I am, as she is! And I pondered just HOW A being of the Grey could survive the darkness without dreaming! Without sleep!

And so I realised,

At night as we leapt to Earths beloved universe and hid in a galaxy, you turned into your galaxy. The darkness couldn’t collect you because you collected yourself.

And so, you could survive the night. And, the night became your dream. And, you lived amongst devils and demons and were immune to their wickedness.

And then came the Grey…