Maybe I'll tell you the story of how I became an angel, of how I found my wings and learned to fly.
Maybe I'll tell you the story of how he became my sun, for I was the earth. He never revolved around me, he was the light of my life. Every part of my soul needed him to thrive.
Maybe I'll tell you the story of how he ripped the wings out of my back with mere words, he removed the wings, and he left me.
So, all that remains is the name I go by, Angel.
Maybe I'll tell you the story, but this story is best saved for a sadder day.
YOU ARE READING
The Trees Talk
PoesíaThe trees talk, they know what goes through your mind. The trees, they scream. +previously Perfection and Deception+
