Wings

Wings

A Story by Ms. Starr

I only fell in love once. It was thrilling. 
I met him for the first time in a dark room 
underwater. 
The walls were rippling,
cigarette smoke hung in the air 
like fog.
His silhouette constricted my pupils, 
reminding my brain
that there was more than my nerves,
reminded my body to breathe. 
But I choked away from his murky voice
and when I rose from the deep the next morning
I had regarded him as a 
fabrication. 
I met him again in a back alley
exchanging 
in a handshake
and he asked my name. 
His shadow caught me dangling on the edge 
of a mirror
powdered and wide-eyed.
He told me to share
so I told him my story wrapped in
a fumbled cigarette burning too 
fast
He took a drag, he breathed me in
then put the ember out
on my arm. 
He told me to shut up. So I did.
He told me he liked my voice.
He told me he liked my skin 
and my veins. 
I said he'd been in a dream
and he asked me 
where I thought we were. 
He had wings covering his shoulders blades,
sleek like oil gushing from his spine
toxic and contagious
they were soft under my fingers.
I would watch them ripple when he slept
his skin rolling, waves of muscles
responding to the gravity of my body,
curving canyons for shadows to bloom. 
The feathers would curl and snake
down, twisting around 
the knobs in his spine.
When we were together, he'd wrap me 
in an embrace
that left us in space, 
dark and unbearably
hot. 
His tongue was sharp
cutting promises into my skin 
but his kisses were more passionate
than his eyes. 
He told me he loved me
with his hands around my neck
and when I woke up
I regarded him as
a lover. 
He didn't regard me at all. 
And then he told me he was
sorry
with a gun to his temple
and his eyes over my head
I said it back
and kissed him but his wings 
were too thick, spreading, 
reaching. 
I left him in a dark room 
six feet
underground. 
He found my skin playing with bowls and straws, 
but I wasn't there anymore. 
He stretched it out
and climbed inside, filling me
with blood and 
toxins
that awakened my nerves. 
When I woke up, his fingers were spiders
running up my legs 
and through my hair.
His smile was sharp 
like the center of a crystal, 
casting shadows and rainbows across my eyes. 
I regarded him as an angel. 
When he let me out of my feathered 
cage
I told him again
and he said it back,
a mockingbird.
But his mind was dark, the ink
in his veins had burst. 
It sunk into my skin when he 
licked me, brushed me
black and blue.
He could cry oil, 
thicker than his
empathy.
If I woke up, I didn't recognize him. 
I regarded him as 
a monster
and watched a boy
with bloody bare shoulders 
walk away. 
When I woke up, I was alone
shrouded in his wings
and memory. 

© 2012 Ms. Starr


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213 Views
Added on June 15, 2012
Last Updated on July 6, 2012
Tags: romance, abuse, drugs, fiction, prose, poetry

Author

Ms. Starr
Ms. Starr

MA



About
I enjoy writing. I don't do it enough. I'm unmotivated, uninspired, and have learned that unless you are deemed important or special enough for modern society, your words will generally go unheard. I'.. more..

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oh, god. oh, god.

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