Angel’s Wings

I don’t know who told me not to exist, but I heed their call on all fours.

My life doesn’t matter.

I hope that voice is proud of themselves. I hope the propaganda they spent hundreds and thousands targeting me was spent well.

I’ll rip my arms off and bleed for others. This life, this body, these ideas aren’t mine. They’re borrowed and the interest compounding is astronomical. I can’t pay it off with green bills and metallic coins.

It demands more than that. It wants my memories, it wants my emotions, it wants my sense. Nothing I do can ever off set this debt on me.

I don’t dare to look in the mirror. I can have angel’s wings, but are they really mine? Or where they given to me out of pity? Or are they part of this costume for this grand play? Or are these only angel’s wings only for a certain belief. If you sell yourself and your soul this way, you’ll have them.

Do I have a set devil’s wings on me? Or one of each?

I don’t know, and not knowing is sometimes better than knowing. But I can’t figure this out. This Catch 22, this ouroboros. Who knows?

Is what I’m doing right? Is it all in vain?

I wish someone gave me answers to this question.


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