A N G E L
‘ USELESS ME ‘ is what i whisper to myself as you rot away ‘gainst my arms . you rot just like those flowers in april , & my wings that sprung in may are decaying , too . & then you disappear for an eternity in august . then in november here i stand , rivulets wavering on my face as i wait for january whilst watching the mirror that presented this image to me on december : it was the crying , pathetic , useless me .
A N G E L