Angels

Angels are ripping off their wings, just to fit into straight jackets.

They pick a feature and tell you to loathe it,

until you pick it apart.

Your mother’s legs are out of style.

Your father’s nose isn’t trending.

The mosaic that took generations of love to build,

Just isn’t pretty enough.

So swallow the tapeworm,

slash up your face,

destroy yourself.

We’ll all end up as a corpse,

you’ll just look like one before then.

The worms will eat up your skin,

and your new face will bleed too much,

and you wont be able to hold yourself.

Your parents will look at you.

Your father will find his nose was replaced with a ski slope,

And your mother will find her legs replaced with matchsticks.

And when your mother cries,

“My baby is a corpse!”

You’ll say,

“I’m not a corpse, mama. I’m an angel.”