Dust Angels

1.

I am like a beautiful statue in a barren wasteland. The floral wreaths I once wore have become a crown of thorns. I want to leave the virtueless garden that has become my dominion.

Planted with seeds of deception and nurtured by doubt, I bear fruits of self-loathing. I have been permanently grounded, the frigid winds have weathered my plumed adornments down to quills.

Regardless, traveling by way of foot would be impossible. My feet have been shackled, ankles chafing from attempted escapes. I have remained stationary for so long I have become one with the pedestal. 

I have wallowed in my transgressions long enough to be constricted by ivy shackles. They are crushing me, my spine is so contorted I have no idea what it means to have backbone. Bending over backwards for someone has become more than a metaphor for me.

My once perfect face has become stained with industrial tears. Once something so perfect is broken regardless if you put it back together it is never the same. The number of cracks in my body is still less then the number of nights I have cried myself to sleep.

I am but a beautiful statue, crumbling from the inside out. I have went from a solid entity to the shell of what once was. My wings have been clipped by the hands of a deceitful angel.

I am a statue, known for being strong and beautiful. Many times in life have the strongest things been hollow inside. The hardest part of being strong for others is that they never ask if you are weathered down.