Her wings are all that’s left of us

I will hurt her in this new massacre;
she will become an edge, again,
moving under the dagger blade,
because her wings are too small,
too delicate
for her to fly wherever she wants.

But the desire to cut them off allows me to save her,
eyes colored by the devastating sight,
my screams are too quiet,
simply silenced
by what I see on her back,
it scares me too much to cut off her wings.

Is there a reason,
or is this just a betrayal?

She caught me wandering,
in evaluating my diagnosis,
in this massive post-script of my madness.

She asked:
Why did you climb angels so high,
beyond existence,
and left all the devils on earth,
lonely and in love?
It’s like she blamed me for her fall,
and now I’m here to face everything.

Is there a reason
or is this just treason?

The contradictions in her prayers are crushing diamonds
from the poisonous and intricate edges of reason,
all for a traitor who’s hurt by addiction.
But is there a reason
or just treason?

What’s left
when nothing is going in the right direction,
and curves are the only ones that look right?
The circles of hell are tight,
the current is breaking through my conscience,
and it takes too long.

I would tell her what I was feeling,
but her wings were getting weaker,
as I struggle not to sharpen the dagger
by which I first mutilated the anatomy of her body.

Too weak,
tied to her wings,
to cut them herself.
It had to be me,
the culprit, the villain, another fallen angel,
the real one,
always knowing that I’m a coward who’s afraid to feel.

But it has to be now,
only now,
later isn’t an option,
because now is an apocalypse,
the beginning of her reincarnation,
the end of her captivity inside me.
Freedom from shackles,
the release of my poison.

They sway from side to side,
indecisive, unremitting.
All that seems to be left is the right one,
because the path to the left of itself has always been the wrong one.
She didn’t get any answers to her questions.
I’d be lying if I said that
that I can harshly give her a conclusion.

She looked me in the eyes,
broken and belonging to no one,
she swallowed words,
stood steadily on her feet and refused to move,
she waited for me to give her a sign,
something to prove that I have a desire to feel.

But it must be right now,
later isn’t an option
because now is an apocalypse.
So why try to correct this
when mistakes get us here?
And she’s right,
her wings are all that’s left of us,
and this time I’m right
regardless of my selfishness
to the need to be loved by someone so pure, so sincere.

It has to be right now,
later isn’t an option.
Later her wings will be stronger,
when I turn around and leave again.

She feels, too, perhaps,
a skin storm after so long,
like a scar that reopens
where the sky has long been exhausted.

And I feel like the moment
I tarnished her purity,
and sewed her wings from my dirty conscience and sins,
that after that I was banished,
that the zeal of a fallen angel will remain on the threshold of her house.
I suddenly appeared as a disguised beggar,
to steal her those same wings.

But her soul is rolling toward the abyss.
She chased me with broken lies,
the storm she had carried for so long,
so we became two empty shells
that match to fill visible holes,
with the screams of the shafts that suddenly
broke like two promised loves.

I’m ready
for the most complex blade movement ever,
inside the cathedral of our past,
that became a wreck
when our skies unfolded
and that a hard, difficult decision falls over my hand
on her back and the final ending.

I cut them off, blindfolded.
Again the mud, again the dust,
the bloody landscape of previous pain.
I hurt her again
but this massacre was necessary.
I will save her finally,
though she can’t realize that for a long time.

Again her heart was dropped
into the depths without a single cry,
once again among the countless
prisoners who survived the same horror.
It’s useless to howl.
From these murky waters the beasts of oblivion
like me, never drink.

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