Tag Archives: angel

“I Want To Thank You: For Lettin’ Me — Be Myself, Again!”

First and foremost:  “WHY?!” 

Why would I voluntarily consider falling out of the sky with nothing but another human strapped onto me?

Strangely, since scheduling the appointment, I’ve caught myself wondering more about that very person — the angel on my back — than about the entire procedure of skydiving.  I know he is going to be impressively skilled and come with some sort of a life-saving apparatus on his shoulder blades.  But what I want to know more is:

Will I be able to talk to the guy?

Will he be one of those delicious badass looking creatures I can daydream about later?

Basically:  Will he be — a friend?  A comrade?

But still (and here I quote my more sensible comrades):  “WHY?!”

I have once caught a postcard urging me to do something fearless every day.  (Is there any other company more presumptuous in its vision than Hallmark?)  And I wish I could say that I’ve decided to go skydiving at the end of this summer, in order to challenge my most fearful self.

Truth be told, however, for a while there, I haven’t even considered fear.

Until:

“Aren’t you scared shitless?” one of those more sensible comrades of mine texted me yesterday, as if confiding on some shared secret.

I searched my body for any disturbance by its adrenaline.  Blood flow — even.  Heartbeat — chill:

“Nyet.”

Skydiving is just something that I’ve decided to do.  It’s just an adventure.

Thus far in life, I’ve had plenty of those; but most of my adventures have happened as consequences to my decisions to better myself.  So, as I switched hemispheres in pursuit of my education years ago, adventures would come as part of the package.  A once in a lifetime deal, eh?  And when I would change states or cities — again, while chasing better opportunities — I would eventually establish a habit for it.

It would feel strangely calm as I would land in every new neigborhood and watch it pass the windows of my cab or train.  Immediately, I would unpack my bag.  (I still do that, even if just crashing for a night in a hotel room, in an unknown city.)  And I think it always had something to do with pitching a temporary home base as someone who’s never had a home to speak of.

Home, for me, was wherever I landed.

Then, I would always take a stroll, or, as of recently, a run through my new neighborhood.  I would study the manners of the locals and would often get confused for one of them, by my new city’s tourists.

“Sorry, I’m clueless,” I would confide in these strangers on our shared secret.

My adventures would come unannounced, never pre-negotiated.  They would be something to cope with — NOT to anticipate.  So, it seems that I’ve never really made A CHOICE to have adventures, in life:  I just chose an adventurous life; a fuller life that challenged me to never get content for long enough to give up on my curiosity or wanderlust — but to continue the pursuit of my growth.

So, to quote another more sensible comrade of mine:

“Why the fuck would you wanna kill yourself?”

My decision to jump out of the sky — is in a whole new category of an adventure.  It’s a chosen one. With it, there comes a privilege of knowing that I am finally in a position to be able to afford myself, however selectively, these new curiosities that arise; and my gratitude immediately follows.  So maybe, in leading a fuller life, not only have I acquired a habit for adventure — but an addiction to gratitude.  

That seems just about right.

But now, as wait for the hour of my newly chosen adventure, what do I do with a slew of my more sensible comrades’ expressed fears?  Well.  I measure them.  Or rather, I measure myself against them.  I admit to myself that my life has been unlike anyone else’s.  My life belongs to someone who’s never had a home to speak of.

Immediately, then:  I start measuring myself, despite my comrades’ fears, however sensible.  In a way, I must stop listening to them, so that I can continue with my steady blood flow — my chill heartbeat — so that I can overhear the perseverance of my courage.  And then:  I start looking for the new ground upon which I can land.

So, instead of continuing our chat about the fears of my more sensible comrades, each time, they’ve asked me:

“WHY?!” — I’d changed the topic; and I would express my love for them, my gratitude.

And that is exactly what I’ve spent the last twenty four hours doing:  I’ve spun off endless messages of love into the phones and emails of my beloveds; to every comrade, however sensible or fearless, that I have acquired in this adventurous lifetime of mine.  Because for me, they are the only valuable possession of mine.  And as someone who’s never had a home to speak of, I’ve learned to think of them — as my home bases, all over the world.

So, now, no matter where I go:  I always have a place to land.

And I shall always land on my feet, my beloved comrades — the angels on my back!  So, don’t you worry:  I shall see you on the new ground again, after I’ve fallen out of the sky.

“Blame It On: A Simple Twist of Fate.”

She sat on her futon, bare-breasted, with her strong brown legs stretched out before my face; and they clasped the edge of the antique coffee table with her kitty-cat paws — each nail perfectly polished with the color of the Dead Sea; and she read to me, something about angels.

Where the fuck did she come from?  

I knew the details, of course; the original coordinates.  Something about a disheveled family.  Occasionally, she, no longer impressed with herself, would mention the routes she’d taken — “Been there,” — the detours dictated by the whims of her heart.

She would learn to never follow the lead of a man — only of her dreams.

“At least, those — are worth the heartbreak.”

But even with all those words in between us — the words which she did not take seriously because she was no longer impressed, with herself — I could NOT have known the many distances she had gone, in order to arrive.

But where the fuck did she come from?

Never before had I seen a girl who could sit in her brown skin so calmly, wearing nothing but shivers.

Which would make me get up, close the window, fetch her a blanket.

“I’m fine,” she’d wave it off, of course.  For she had gone some very long distances, and she would learn to never follow the lead of a man.

And it surprised me that she could be so mellow while stripped, wearing nothing but shivers over her skin.  Most women would freak out with sudden timidness and cover-up their glorious breasts with silly arm gestures.  The way their breasts would spill out over their forearms or in between their fingers would still be enough to make me want to conquer my fears, in their name:  To make me want to be a man.

She, however, was beyond getting in her own way.  For she gone some long distances — in order to arrive.

“It’s bad enough,” she’d joke, “that I’ve got this brain of mine!”

She was always in on the joke of herself.

But really:  What the fuck did she come from?  And how in the world — was she happening?!

With an erect spine of a disciplined dancer, she had been sitting up, watching me get dressed.  I wondered:  Would she write me into her poetry in the morning?  Would I make it into her stories?  (Dear god!  I always get in my own way!)

On top of her knees that were fuzzy with shivers, she was holding an open book of poetry.  I had just picked it up for her, from a bookstore where she was always finding something to read, about angels.  By now, we had shared many books — and plenty of poetry.  And we would share even more had it not been for one annoying habit of hers:  of always reading the very first and the very last sentence before committing to the rest of the text.

“It’s the perfect test — of everything,” she’d always joke.  So impatient — but always in on the joke of herself.

I’d get irritated, at first:  “I don’t ever want to know the ending!”

But she would already be ahead of me, with her charm and that angelic face.

“Where the fuck did you come from?” I said to her last night, while she sat comfortably in her brown skin.  I wanted to think of myself as poignant, or ironic at least.  I reached out to move her hair out of the way.

Her hair!  I had never seen it this long before.  She would normally lose her patience and chop it off, coming back over the threshold of my house while looking like some French actress, with an angelic face.  And it would fling above me, and it would sway, in passion — that glorious wing of hers! — and I would forget to say a prayer to my memory:

Please, please, please hold on to her!  Just this way:  Riding above me, long beyond my comprehension.  Taunting with her riddles and poetry, never meant to be captured.  Always:  Above!

But instead, I would trip out:  There would be so much of her!  So much to remember.  And I would try to say something poignant, or ironic, at least.  And I would ruin it, of course.  (By god!  I always get in the my own way!)

Her hair!  Last night, it was heavy with sweat and the grime of the city.  I could smell other beings on her, because they would always want a piece of that compassion.  They were entitled to it — that wretched lot of conflicted parasites! — and they would pull her down, down, down with them, by that very same mane of hers.

To keep it out of her face, she would yank her hair back into a bun — with an erect spine and a confident hand of a disciplined dancer.  Or, she would flip it, side to side, as she did last night; and it would stream down — that glorious wing of hers! — and in its waves and long centimeters, I could see the distances she had gone.

But:  Where?!  Where the fuck did she come from?  And how in the world was she happening — to me?!

I didn’t know.  I couldn’t have known the distances she had gone — in order to arrive.  I only knew the privilege of her time and poetry; and instead of getting in the way of myself, this time around, I would let her read to me, about angels.

“and she says

when I defame her 

dream:

you are trying to 

pull me down 

by the wings.”

I shall not do that, not this time, with trying so hard to be poignant, or ironic, at least; with trying so hard — to matter.

Instead, I’ll let her soar above.

Always:

Above!

And Dah-ling, Dah-ling: Stand By ME!

She was an angel.  She had to be.  Because she treaded by my side, in her suede moccasins, with such gentle awareness to cause the least amount of damage in her world, I thought:  What have we got here?

Beauty and oddity did not escape her attention, but neither earned any judgement, on her part.  There was something very ancient about her physique:  She could’ve been a descendant of Emily Dickinson or an anonymous lover on a canvas of Modigliani or Cezanne:  A brown girl with either melancholy or innocence (I couldn’t tell) powdering her skin with luminosity.  And every time, her humor took me by surprise; because she seemed so in love with truth, I didn’t think her capable of irony.  Or loss.

If ever I witness such an old soul, on the last round of its reincarnation, I drop all of my mundane nonsense.  And it’s surprisingly easy, every time:  Because those types make time lose its relevance.

“I gotta, I gotta” — doesn’t exist in their company.

Instead, it becomes:

“I am.  I am.”

And if I hang with those souls for long enough, I am soon granted an awe — at my own ability to slide through moments of time as if body-surfing:  I certainly know that there is a greater force behind it all, behind ME — stronger, older, much more relevant! — and that the only thing that I can do is:  Take it in, and ride it out.

Because the longer I live and the more I lose, my angels, the more accepting I become of the utter chaos of living.  Sure, there are certain guarantees in my established routines and standards of living; and each day, they give me points of reference, in time.  Because I, too, am often guilty of “I gotta, I gotta”.

Instead of:  “I am.  I am.”

But, oh, how well I know that if I were to pack-up my apartment, cancel my phone, get rid of my debt; cut all ties and torch all the bridges; if I were to walk out of this chaotic town without a single farewell — what would remain of me is mere memories by those whom I’ve accidentally happened to love.  But then, even those would eventually expire.  (I’ve seen it happen before, with lovers who’ve moved on, out of guilt or entitlement.)  I would be no more than a fading memory.

But the angel of the other day begs to differ.  It’s not her fault — but her very mission — to tell me that I have meant more than that; that even in the chaos of living, however organized, each action matters.  Each action, each person has consequences.  She herself needn’t worry about karma any more:  Her goodness is beyond all that shit.  But for the rest of us, karma begs to differ.  And it begs to better.

And so I was surprised the other day when she said, while staring her dusty moccasins:

“I can only meet him halfway, this time.  Otherwise, I’ll lose myself.”

She’s been telling me the story of her love, on the nth round of its reincarnation.  For years, she had loved this man, going out on a limb with her goodness, every single time.  She had been a friend to him, treading gently by his side, through every selfish tragedy and moment of self-doubt.  And when the rest of humanity seemed to forget his relevance, she would be the only one to remember him:  to make him matter.  But then:  He’d dismiss her again.

Recently, he’d come back around, asking for her time and friendship.  BUT ON WHAT TERMS?!  He needed a friend, he said.  He needed — her:  For she was the only one who really loved him, who “understood him” all along.

What a waste, I thought.  What a waste:  of youth, and goodness; and of love!  What selfish audacity, I thought, on behalf of that regular mortal.  What sense of entitlement!..

But then:  I remembered my own recently expired affair.  It had been my lover’s idea to end us.  Not the first time.  I’d survived many before him.  I was going to be alright.  But before I became aware of my mourning, I found myself in the midst of waiting.  Waiting for change:  A change of heart, a change of his mind.  A change of man.  And in the mean time, the man would check back on me:  for some assurances that I still loved him, that I was still on standby, no matter the distance he’d imposed between us.

Not the first time.  I had done that with others:  beholding for them, for years; forgiving them fully at every dismissal, then accepting them unconditionally at every reunion.  I would continue living my life, treading it carefully, while causing the least amount of damage, in my world.  But if an ex couldn’t bear the chaos of his living, he was always welcomed back.

Suddenly, I felt infuriated, for the sake of my kind:  Women with forgiveness and goodness enough to make-up for our men’s lack.  Women with uncompromisable karma, so rare, it makes us irreplaceable.  Old souls who can always change a man, and sometimes, his mind.  Angels who practice unconditional love and forgiveness to make time irrelevant, but lives — matter:  

Isn’t time for each angel to claim her time back?  Surely, there must be better things and worthier causes to give that time to!  Surely, all this waiting around was contradicting the very nature of our being:  holding us back from living our own existences — on the last round of reincarnation — in the moment, while making us behold for the past.  Surely, this had to end!

That evening, it ended for me, my angels.  I finally accepted my lover’s decision to depart.  I got dismissed.  I cut all ties and torched all the bridges.  And I left, treading carefully and causing the least amount of damage — to myself — and settled on being a mere memory, but not a returning one.

Man vs. World

“Ain’t no sunshine when he’s gone.

It’s not warm when he’s away…”

Fuck.  THAT.  Shit.

First of all, it’s the bloody desert out there today!  Look at it.  The sun has swept off the last of yesterday’s clouds to return the sky to that dreamy blue I had seen only on this coast; and give it a couple of hours, I’ll be basking in it, naked.  (Ah, but I ain’t telling you where:  It’s my secret spot.)Secondly, since his departure, my own comrades and beloved hearts — and all of my small world’s children — have swooped in, dusted me off (for I have not only bit the dust in this fall — I fuckin’ made a meal of it!) and have been taking turns serving me cups of hot tea to melt away my midnight shivers.

“You’re a’right,” they tell me.  They always tell me, never ask.  Not that they’re ever surprised by my strength or resilience; or my refusal to lead an ordinary life.

“It’s not becoming — for a woman like you!” one of my comrades commented on my tears the other day, in his laconic, Tony Soprano-esque way.  (SHIT.  Can’t an Amazon get a break?!  Nyet, apparently.)

“Always an inspiration,” uttered my East Coast angel before departing from me after this weekend’s visit.  She herself is far from shabby when it comes to the quality of her sought life; and soon enough, she’ll return that inspiration with a single postcard from some exotic coast with gorgeous brown people and white sand.  Not too shabby.

In my blunt Russian-ness, I must admit:  I am not really the pining type.  Nyet, I definitely don’t pine much.  So, okay, I’ll mourn the loss of a love while rummaging through my bookshelves for like-minded words.  I may even dwell in nostalgia a bit.  But even that — is more of a Russian thing:  I’m just another Olga, wanting to get to Moscow.  (Chekhov, comrades!  Check that Chekhov:  He knew a thing or two about humanity.)

Perhaps, being an only child had something to do with it:  for as long as the memory of my young self spans, I was always perfectly self-sufficient and often in preference for my solitude.  Considering my parents’ occupations (father was an officer, mother — a social butterfly), they left me to my own devices quite often and willingly.  And if ever one of them wanted to go parental on my ass and demonstrate how to do something, in response, they got my very assertive:

“MYSELF.”

According to motha, it was the first word I learned, and obviously — it was my favorite.  Yep:  While other infants were taking the easier, more natural to their tongues routes and learning to call out for their parents, I was already self-asserting.  To make this tale of V’s childhood even more poignant, I spoke of “MYSELF” in its masculine conjugation.  (Unlike in the English language, in Russian one must conjugate every word in a sentence; which makes our tongue quite difficult to navigate.  Try navigating Moscow, for Lenin’s sake:  Nothing we do is easy!)

When it came to my early life romances, I was a late bloomer.  Always a bookworm, in all honesty, I found the characters in my novels much more interesting than boys.  Between that and the adventures promised to me at the time by the Communist Party, the world appeared to be more tempting of an adventure than another single human being.  Here, I wonder if my men ever even had a chance, considering they had to compete with the entire planet.  But when my first Russian boyfriend announced he was interested “in seeing other people”, a month later, I won a full scholarship for my pre-collegiate studies in the United States.  He had other people to see — I had other places to be.  (I hear he lives in a hamlet now, married to a milkmaid and working for the “collective farm”.  Mazel tov, darlin’.)

In the history of my womanhood, I’ve treated every break-up as an opportunity to grow.  It’s kind of the way it flows in Motha Nature, don’t you think, my comrades?  When something old expires, it makes room for something — or someone — new.  And the more I live — the more losses I suffer — the quicker that interchange happens.

It’s as if I’ve become more connected to my own intuition; and I’m able to hear the voices off all other opportunities the world has to offer, no matter how loud the moaning of my ego and heart may be.  So, during this currently happening ache, there is a somewhat habitual thrill about everything new — everything yet unknown and unforeseen, yet somehow anticipated.  I may not know what this new shift is going to bring, but I suspect:  It’s going to be magnificent.

Because it has been, my beloveds, all along; every time until now.  Every departed lover was replaced by someone wonderful and better suitable for me.  Every old occupation gave room to sometimes humbling opportunities.  And the only part that I am obliged to play at this time of loss is to respectfully behold for my departed beloved — to wish him well, for the sake of my own grace — then, to grant MYSELF the time and space to heal; because give it half a phase — and that space will be flooded with the world.

And to quote my favorite sister Olga:

“Oh, dear sisters, our life is not ended yet.  We shall live!  The music is so happy, so joyful, and it seems as though in a little while we shall know what we are living for, why we are suffering.”

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some naked basking to do.

Love yous.  All of yous.  (And who said I couldn’t conjugate English pronouns?  I just did!  MYSELF.)

Karma isn’t a Bitch. It’s a Cunt.

Sh, my beautiful baby-boys:  I have a gorgeous angel in my bed.  Please don’t wake her!

She had flown in the other eve from afar:  One of my East Coast guardian angels who, over the course of our decade-long friendship, had seen me wrestle with some serious shit on the way to becoming the rad broad that I am.  (Motha tells me modesty doesn’t run in our fam’.  “Repeat after me,” she orders me around:  “Lucky you — to know ME.”  Obediently, I follow the lead.  Never underestimate the power of a woman’s compassion!)

Back to my sleeping angel. Born on some exotic Mediterranean coast, just like the gypsy scribing this rant blog, she had never settled — for a place or a man unworthy of her stunning self.  Instead, she continued her flight across the skies of the world, occasionally marking her coordinates with a post-card to me.

And I?  I treaded upon the ground beneath, looking up only when I’d trip myself up:

“Did you see that?” I’d ask the skies of those multiple cities in which I played hide-and-seek with my homes and loves.

“I think:  You’re amazing,” the voice of my girl would ping-pong from one timezone to the next.

Alas:  Never underestimate the power of a woman’s compassion.

So, I’d scape myself off the ground, relocate my gravity and resume the epic search for the next city in which my love could be hiding.

Last night, while the angel dozed off on a floor pillow underneath a caramel-colored light that blended with her skin tone, I was alerted by messages from two women in the midst of their heartaches.  One had just tripped herself up on her intuition:  She was not getting the love she needed from a man.  The other — tumbled over the limbs of her lover who, while stretching those and putting on his running shoes, suddenly wanted to “pursue other options”.  One was a grown woman who, in this ever-so-transient city of LA-LA, knew better than to expect for a man to stay.  The other — still a baby, a girl-child with no more than a single previous heartache — was straining her eyes at the horizon in an attempt to see just what her leaving lover was referring to.  But no matter the drastic difference between the two hearts, both women were in the midst of being left.

This isn’t about your shortcomings, dear baby-boys; for we all have a share of those.  (What did I tell you?  Never underestimate the power of a woman’s compassion.)  Besides, no matter how much this ranty cunt wants to unleash, I have a sleeping angel in my bed.  So, I better keep my voice down.

It’s really simple, baby-boys:  The size of this world is overwhelming, I know.  I’ve earned myself some badass calluses treading it.  And as my angel tells me, it is indeed worth every curiosity and wondering eye of yours.

But behold:  KARMA.  It’s bad enough you might have inherited some shitty one from one of your previous lives.  (I know I have!  Otherwise, why the fuck am I trippin’ so much?)  So, in this lifetime, I’d suggest cradling that bitch as gingerly as your manly arms allow.  And when you make a choice to leave a woman (especially a good one), I recommend to do so gracefully.

(I know, I know:  Break-ups are messy.  In the face of a departing love, shit get thrown around; and usually both parties are equally guilty at betraying their former loving selves.  Shiva knows, I’ve climbed over enough ruins of my own post-break-up war zones:  I threw shit — he threw shit right at back me; I ducked out of the way; I slipped up on that same shit; I fell.  But if you are the one doing the leaving, have some mercy — have some grace! — and don’t destroy your new ex.)

I’m aching:  As of last night, the world included two newly single girls.  (As if it needed more of us!)  And I weep, my dear darlings, not just for the fact of that very injustice (because I think, my two girls — are amazing!); but for the brutal destructions the two departing men have chosen to leave behind.  I cannot even bring myself to reiterate the laundry list of their grievances with my angels.  (NEVER underestimate the power of a woman’s compassion, I warn you!)  Instead, I’ll reiterate this:

If you want to leave — for Shiva’s sake, GO!  But don’t rough handle your former love — or your karma.  Just like you, we will eventually “pursue other options”:  other homes, other cities, other loves:

“When he’s ready to love me again, someone more capable might be loving me,” the baby angel wrote to me last night.

So, please leave us behind unscathed.  Because when you choose to love a woman (especially a good one), you’ll no doubt leave a mark.  But when you choose to leave her — marking the territory is simply brutal and selfish; and unworthy of your former loving self — your BETTER self — and of your karma.

Ah.  I hear a shuffling of feathered wings…

Sh, my beautiful baby-boys:  I have a gorgeous angel in my bed.  Do YOU?

If Angels Must Fall…

Oh boy!  Oh boys, rather!  This shawty woke up ranty in the morn’!

Just for the sake of your wild imaginations, my rougher creatures, I shall confess that in the midst of my sleep today — while naked, with tan lines slowly marking their territory all over my skin — I had a thought.  Well, actually, I had a muscle cramp first, in one of my calves.  It came from marching in 12-inch heels yesterday eve, while strung out with endless pearls and whipping my boys with my askance glances.  But after the cramp passed, the head had a moment of clarity; and then, I tossed my caramel-colored bod into a diagonal angle across the bed, and went back to my dreamin’.  (I don’t have much height on me, so I tend to terrorize every bed I sleep in by assuming the least economical positions.  It’s what I do:  I toss ‘n’ hog.)

The thought was tiny at first:  a lil’ echo from one of my Amazon’s words I read yesternight.  But by the time I awoke — in my bed that looked like a war zone — the thought had grown into a Wild Thing.  It had been hanging onto a plank of my canopy because that was the only space unoccupied by my petite frame; and when I opened my yes, it began swinging above my head in some silly acrobatic act that was suppose to both entertain me and to terrify.

Now as I write, the Wild Thing is still here, running around my single girl’s apartment, rummaging through the drawers of my memories, reshuffling the books of my library in search of inspirations, and braiding my Martha Stewart’s ribbon collection into its hairy body.  It’s demanding my time.  I’ve tried to calm it down with a saucer full of milk ‘n‘ coffee on the tiles of my kitchen floor; but it ain’t having it.  It’s climbed upon the window sill in front of which I rant every morning and proceeded to stick is stubby fingers into a bottle of my honey; and as it started to gnaw on my gypsy earrings and dry-hump my still aching calf, I can ignore it no longer:

“Alright, alright you silly thing,” I pet it funny face.  “What is it?”

And thusly it growls:

“Do you realize the fortune, dear gentlemen, of having the love of a woman?  And if you do, how dare you waste it on your fear, or on some hideous spiel of your ego about your readiness; or a presumptuous idea that if you let that love depart, you’ll be worthy of more of it — and better kind! — in the future?

Does it stroke your egos — and your penises — when you finally get the girl you’ve been chasing?  And if it does, why do you must you daydream about deserving better than what you’ve got?  

And when, due to whatever juvenile bullshit your ego whispers to your mirror reflection during the morning shaving routine, when you break an angel’s heart, does your manhood grow when you watch her weep for the loss of your love?  Do you feel more like a man to have a woman’s tears soak your chest?  And if you do, pray do tell me, does your heart ache for her, in that very moment?

And when your angel finally gathers her belonging and the shards of her broken self-esteem and walks away, does the lingering perfume of her hair make your heart wince with missing her?   

And when another woman breaks your heart by being underserving (karma’s long term memory — is a bitch), do you remember us:  An army of angels who’ve made you better men; and for the risk of having your love, committed themselves to falling?”

Damn, you Wild Thing!  You growl with poetry!

Ow!  And there it goes, onto the next thing.  It’s gotten a hold of my old, tortured flip-phone and started flossing its fangs with it.  I got my hands full with this Thing, so I show it how to work it.  Now, it’s scrawling through the archives of my messages in search of some tender words from my recent lover.

“Oh, he’s gone, my darling,” I respond to the disappointed little face now confronting me, “and so are the messages.”

It whimpers.  I know, baby.  I know.

I take over the phone and download the words that birthed this Wild Thing into being in the first place:  The words from a co-hurting angel who’s been letting me borrow her halo while I healed:

“[Men] must chase, hunt,” she’s written, “and as soon as they feel they’ve caught you, had you totally… sexually, emotionally… as soon as you’re theirs for the taking, they no longer want it.  I fucking hate it, and it terrifies me.”

Amen, my darling.  Such is the sad coincidence in too many tales I’ve overheard from other angels, fallen for the sake of love.

Men must hunt, in pursuit of better opportunities, situations and loves.  In this day and age, they no longer need to do it on women’s behalf, for we are often capable of doing it for ourselves.  But if they must carry-on hunting, how I wish they wouldn’t get greedy — even if only for the sake of their own selves!  Because an angel’s love does not take away their freedom in pursuit of beauty — it opens their hearts to comprehending it.  It forgives the past mistakes of their mothers or resuscitates the futures they may have given-up on due to previous heartbreaks.  So, I wish our glorious men would learn to recognize their angels when they see them — to be wise enough to unload their bows and guns, to land their messy heads upon their bosoms — and to give this whole hunting act a rest.

Shh.  The Wild Thing has fallen asleep, still clutching my useless phone in its paw; and suddenly, it looks like the little thing that woke me in the middle of the night.  There, there, my darling.  There, there.