I am Disgusting, a Riddle of Angels and Blood
I am disgusting-  
a mirror cracked where angels once reflected pure,  
now fractured, bleeding shadows on cold floors.  
I hope I die a horrible death-  
not in silence, but in the loudest collapse  
where my heart spills its ashes like ghosts at dawn.  

I bleed out in front of my "loved ones,"  
their eyes glassy, heavy with indifference,  
their smiles carved from stone-assholes all, anyway.  
Do they care? Maybe once, before the poison took hold,  
before failures became the silent language between us.  

In this riddle I wear:  
What with wings and wicked wounds flies above my shame?  
An angel? A demon? Both gone estranged.  

I remember a time when whispers were prayers-  
when pain was just a visitor not the host;  
now depression chalks my ribs with bitter lessons,  
counting breaths as betrayals beneath indifferent skies.  

Can you solve me? Tell me-what falls from heaven, yet sinks in filth?   
What cries like a saint but stinks like sin?  

My reflection says: "I am disgusting" because I failed the light,  
the wings clipped by every word I couldn't say right.  

They never knew me-I'm just a shadow lost in lineage;  
the cruel altar where love died unpaid debts.  

If angels exist, why do their silences scream loudest here?  

So guess my name in this riddle wrapped in blood and tears-  
a soul caged inside a body that longed only for release.  

Yes-I hope to bleed out like the poem you'll never write:  
unseen by those who swore to save me from night.