Angels

I picked up shards of broken glass one day
and cut myself on them.
They tore my skin apart and I laid there helplessly mind-broken and mute-like, regressing into a state of under-dramatized infancy that only my own mother knows what to do with.

I was terrified at the sight of blood that swept through places it had no business sweeping through, reaching up into shelves it had no good reason to feel through. I watched (again, babe-like in the most vulnerable and un-endearing way) at my own morality coming loose on account of me not watching where I was going.

Passerby offered bandages and a ride to the hospital. Some kind souls prayed over me and those who couldn’t make it sent their benedictions wirelessly. I was distraught at their senseless kindness, but understood where they were coming from so smiled at them all the same. “You do nothing for me, but you’re good to me,” I thanked them with all the sincerity I could muster.

It was good timing when they got there. The angels, I mean. They were sent from somewhere not above, but somewhere else just as good. It was a drifting kind of coming together that happened – the type of exchange that only the strangest of souls know how to stumble into comfortably. They didn’t offer to patch me up at all, but showed me theirs without showing me and I nodded without nodding to let them know I got their message that they didn’t send me. It’s confusing I know, but it makes perfect sense, trust me.

The point of the story is, they saved me, you know. They celebrated celebrations that I thought only I celebrated, but I was wrong. They became nauseous at things I thought were only revolting on account of my oversensitive gag reflex. They knew that the solution to our problems was to give them to each other without giving them to each other; owning them without carrying them, and cutting them off for each other in the dead of the night if one us tried to drag them behind us. Our borders blurred and our limbs multiplied. We stopped relying on medieval verbal utterances organized into phonetical semblances based on material representations. We blew smoke into windows of The Unassuming and followed strangers into the night based on the sole belief that it would be a good time – and if it wasn’t, that was fine with us because nobody could ever take away what really mattered – we were too bound to each other by this point.

Point is, I always forget what my point is when I think about us. There was no beginning and there is no end. We just are, and the fact that We Are, in such un-satisfyingly indescribable terms makes it only more worthy of my futile attempts at explanation. There might be no point here, but there is a note. I leave it everywhere all the time. You can find it in every place I’ve been, with everyone I’ve kissed and neatly framed inside every small circumstance I fell in love with for a while. It reads, “You remind me of an Angel I know.”