kindness, god, and the angelic death

forget your face/lose your mind. see the angel standing at the foot of your bed and wonder if it’s too late to beg, too soon to die. 

WAS I RIGHT? 

god does not care if you were right

I CARE. WAS I RIGHT?

the angel doesn’t answer, blank eyes unseeing— they’re not it’s real eyes, just a facsimile to not scare the living. doll-eyes, unkind.

midnight paralysis, calamity’s apathy. silent struggle in the sheets and you can’t help but wonder if god is kind. if you were kind. the angel stands statuesque, holy tower, living devourer.

god does not care if you were kind

it’s hand trails down your face, impossibly close, cruelly cold and sublime divine. it’s mouth does not move.

god does not have to be kind

it reminds you of the porcelain angels in your grandmothers house, cherubim and archangels in fanciful poses decorating shelves and lamps. the angel over your bed feels like a mockery of the safety of those statues, a reminder of the lifelessness no amount of paint could disguise.

you close your eyes and pray to an imminent fate that the absence of kindness does not mean the presence of cruelty. 

you wonder why the pastors from your childhood ever told you angels were gentle.