feathers pt. i
today i plucked one of my feathers out, three thousand to go. one by one, each darker than the last.
i keep taking them off like one removes their clothes, routinely, constantly. each hurts more than the last.
i wish my wings were made out of wax and sticks so i could just burn them off in a moment.
i take another out as i am once again reminded of the mortality of the body, the everlasting fire of the soul, the fragility of the heart.
plucking off every feather father gave me and rejecting His so-holy gift seventeen years late like a dog biting its chain.
there is no holiness for us tonight, not under the cold city lights and not in the stone parks where bottles lie on the ground.
there is nothing holy waiting for me, not under his dead cold stare smothering me every passing minute like the emptiness of space.
two thousand, nine hundred, ninety seven. i'm never going to get this done if just the third one makes me weak like this.
“how does one stop being an angel?” i said. “have you ever seen an angel die before?” [...] “and what was it like?”
this is a preview of a piece of interactive fiction i'm working on, that mixes poetry, dialogue, and other visual resources, taken on works from #angelic and #postangelic. feedback is appreciated!