Steel Dahlia Dirty Angel
He screams, his suffering
a palpable thing. The
agony is almost unbearable,
he claws the ground,
biting his bottom lip and
screaming in pain.
His back hurts, it
feels like steel knives are
being insterted under his skin.
His fingers start to bleed, the
concrete cutting into them as
he rakes the ground
again and again.
Finally there is a tearing
sound, and his screams renew
in frequency and volume as a large
pair of steel and plastic wings emerge
from his shoulderblades - appendages
he didn’t even know he had. He
lays on the grey cement, blood
running from the twin wounds,
panting from the pain.
His wings droop
down to his sides.
He doesn’t dare look
at them, these things that
caused him so much hurt. He
simply lays bleeding on the grey,
cheek pressed to the floor, tears running
down his face, leaving tracks in the sweat and dirt.
Dirty angel.
Laying on the floor.
His wings grey and red and white and black.
His golden eyes stare blankly.
He cannot care any more.
The blood runs still, he lays still.
He doesn’t move.
A steel dahlia falls beside him,
shining, bright and artificial.
Fake beauty in a fake world.
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