Slow

There's an angel with a crowbar hanging from my heart. She keeps prying while I'm praying for growth and for hope.
And when I'm cold and I'm broken and I'm unlovable, she hugs my veins in pursuit of persuading them open.

Though I don't trust her, it's not just her, 'cause I have yet to confide in my own insides,
yet,
if entry were based on the vigor of strength in character,
I could trigger my logic and she'd have my bet.

She's glowing,
hair flowing red,
white robe, gold rope, no wings.
She's undone and unfeathered them and tethered them in bows around my naivety,
where she stands and she sings.

Her songs are my memories, her steps are my bruises and the marks from the scars that my journey have shown.
I'm breaking fast, she's anticipating my moves and accordingly, she dances, Slow.

There's an angel with a crowbar hanging from my heart and she'd be bored without me.

--

love you,
love, me.