My Guardian Angel

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Source: Pexels (Anas Hind)

My guardian angel is having a cola while looking at me making my life’s decisions. 

He wonders about being in the grade C level of angels because he got me in a bad deal. 

A deal that will screw him over because I never listen to him. 

I rush headlong into beanpoles and walls and closed doors. 

I earn bruises and cry. 

Cry into the wrong shoulders. 

I dive into the dead seas and gasp with delayed realization of lost opportunities.

My guardian angel is highly stressed because I spit out love and swallow hurt. Because I let people carve their names into my skin; names that not just go skin-deep but reach the tissues and damage them. 

Because my heart while pumping blood also pumps out my soul. 

And to the wrong ones.

My guardian angel is worried that I will accept poison and not even recognize it. 

That I will let it infect my blood and spread like sunlight filling the sky. 

That I will let them slice my soul into little fragments of ugly deformities. 

That I will let them hollow me out piece by irretrievable piece in exchange for false promises of feeling.

But I tell my angel not to worry. My emptiness is not his to fill.    

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