I was lying next to you at night when I saw a monster’s shadows on the walls,
and I curled up on the bed
shivering in fear,
not speaking a word,
because I didn’t want
to be swallowed whole
but you kissed me
and it was like I’d already been eaten alive when I saw that you were my monster.
This happened sometime after the sun went down
and you climbed into bed.
I rolled over to find
you’d grown thirteen-foot wings.
They were always there, but I hadn’t noticed until I started to believe in you too much.

I called you an angel
but I didn’t mean it, not like this,
not the constant silhouette on the ground
that blots out the sun because you got sick of me being your anchor,
of how gravity still applies to you,
of no one hearing your prayers.
Believe me when I tell you your wings
aren’t what make you a miracle.
You tell me,
I am no miracle.
This is no place for angels.

I ask you what it is that you have to say to God anyway.

I can’t remember the last time your feet touched the ground,
but please,
let me see the world around you.
Please, walk with me
down beaches, asphalt roads,
through the forests,
into the rivers.
Please, the words on your lips
don’t have to be holy for me to love them.
You are burning so bright,
it hurts to look you in the eye.

You dip your fingertips in blood
and holy water.
All I want is to touch them,
watch them kiss the keys
of your piano,
scrawl love notes,
shake me awake in the morning when I won’t open my eyes,
but you can’t.
That would make you unclean.

You say you don’t belong
in this neon city
of gods seen in the smoke of
cigarettes burning down to your
fingertips
and churches full of Bibles
with dust on their spines,
but where will you go?
To the skies?
They are too polluted for you to catch a glimpse of the stars,
you, above the sinners,
and you say you know.

You don’t realize we’re living in a world of unbelievers now.