(tw: suicide)
it's so hard being a good person
but so easy to think you are.
i see people in the sun by the banks
stitching their wings out of the feathers
gathered from the birds that come to hunt
fish with hunger.
before they take flight they smear themselves with halos.
i'm not saying they're false angels.
i'm saying they're the only angels: angels of falseness.
i'm saying the only true angels are the ones who don't exist: angels of nonexistence.
when i see their needles i become nostalgic
for the times when i was extremely suicidal.
back then it was so easy: all i had to do was think about me:
how to survive this night when the sweet scepters of nonexistence
rose up like whorls of the puppetry of my own shadows.
but now it's so hard: i have to think beyond me:
about others, about the world and my trace in it.
the angels take flight like they take advantage
of us. this is my poem. if i want to i can take it back:
make a hole in the right wing, make the sun too bright
for their wax, or make the flutter too little for their weight.
if i still only had to think about me i would have done it
but not now. this poem floats on the world:
sometimes like a boat, sometimes like scum.
i let them fly. i'll learn to swim.
~ ajay
23/8/2024
