angel on a pedestal

angel on pedestal


wonder is the color of your skin
touched lightly beneath my fingertips
softly loving my wetness
i am disappearing
in your lust-flavored fairy tales
which i believe
despite my better judgment
i know you
your kind.
and i let myself fall and
convince myself
i am yours and you are mine
and our love
smells of bees
and the stickiness
is all the remains
when you shed your wings
and walk away.






Note: I wrote most of my poems in high school, but this was written for my Bunny Czar/ Tsar. Everything in this poem has a double meaning. I never fell so hard, so fast for anyone. But, as the poem says, I out him up above me and it turned out he was just a guy and I was just another girl passing through his life.
There was this girl I stupidly introduced to my friends at the time. She wore a mask in front of them -- still does -- and I couldn't believe her didn't see right through her. She dislikes me for some reason. I guess because I could, "out" her? But as she was at his wedding, I doubt she has anything to worry about. If he hasn't seen through her by now, he is not the intelligent, intuitive guy I fell for. If I could talk to him I'd tell him that his nipole piercings are to small and thin and I just pictured them being yanked out. Ouch! 
No. If I could really talk to him I'd ask what happened? When did he go from disliking fake people to embracing them? And why did he take another girl to, of all places, New Orleans? When he'd have nightmares, I'd calm him down by telling him stories of New Orleans. He knew how much I wanted to live there. Yet he shed the angel wings I'd placed on him and showed that I never meant as much to him as he did to me.

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