Kicking up dust

Yesterday, I ate an angel.
All dusted pink and golden-hearted caramel.
Spear; sugar-spun and cut gums.
Wings; truffle and split cheeks.
Face; fondant and sneering.
Cut back and my heels are kicking up dust. Dust that glitters in the early morning sun like tears at midnight.
The day goes; drugs store, grocers, stares, smirks.
And then it’s dark and you don’t see the dust no more but instead the lights and the crowds and the bars.
And all the faces are full of shiny and happy and pills.
And they’re shiny and happy but it’s all arm’s length, behind a screen. Because I should be drinking and leering and ripping the tights off not putting them on.
And their shiny and happy smashes the screen and their angel faces smile behind candy-coated fists.
And today, grit sticks to my lips, bones cut my flesh.
Today, my heels are broken.
Today, the angels taste of dust.

© Tamara Rogers