It doesn't feel different, but it is
blood, feathers, and lipgloss
I was an angel, and they made me leave.1 Dark angel. Air angel. Angel of scrambled language. Angel of crossed wires. Angel that is so sick of being an angel. Angel of the fall. Punished by love. Punished into clarity. Crashed hard so I could see. The problems of ‘consciousness’ or ‘authenticity’ are so funny to me. Have you ever tried to write? Have you …
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