who would be my angel

the years stack like chipped separators,
sheltering what is stuck between:
if ever i was saved it was not enough.

waking up roils the orchestra,
nervous to commit to the overture.
each string trembles a want in me.

the day i wake satisfied
i will scream from the rush of
displacement. i walk my beat

over the aging pavement.
the years i have spent loving
are wilting inside of me.

i pick at and push the usual fears
around my plate: if i whip them
into a mash i might manage.

will i ever weigh myself again?
will i shear what makes me proud
to dissuade the strangers from

dismissing me? every day
another life succeeds me.
i am not bitter, i nod approvingly.

then i head to work. and can't work
out when this will change. or when
i will change. what even changes?

it is likely my angel watches
with sweet curiosity,
blowing kisses down like rain,

spectator to my survival game.
grasping my pain with one hand,
the other stretched out for my sake.