help

wings

i figured out the paint drops, the renewal of our lives.

it all starts in our paint cans; the tint of color splashes, our hands caked with layers of regrowth and spirit.

every new coat of paint changed us, but it couldn't cover our deepest cracks, or the worst rotting. paint is just for the outside.

my wings were covered in dirt and grease, several spots of feathers missing from my new limbs.

we were growing, our feathers turning ugly and dark, resembling her broken spirit and broken demeanor.

they turned black. god had kicked me out of heaven for the first time, sending me to the underworld with the other black wings and broken angels.

they smelt of death- rotting flesh and withering bones.

but the humans gave us paint.

every ounce of the can was poured into velvety falls over our feathers, suffocating dust and bacteria. i felt holy, like another chance was given to me.

ALL MIGHTY.

paint saved me. but what happens when your paint fades away, chipping and cracking and drying?

this cycle of unholy ruin crackles beneath my own touch, my angelic purity rubbing away with each layer of paint that chips.

i rot with the paint. beauty without maintenance is nothing.