An Angel needs a pill to chill

An Angel needs a pill to chill, to soften the blow of Heaven’s will. He trades his halo for refill, a crystal dream that breaks to shrill. “Just one last time,” he swears to God, then grinds his halo into sod. His knees are raw on chapel floor, but he keeps crawling back for more. Forgiveness lives in powder form, a false shelter from the storm. He measures out his worth in grams, a falling star that no one claims. The scale decides just who he ams, dissolving in the vapor's flames. A ghost inside a hoodie strings, addicted to the burn it brings. His mother's voice is just a hum, she asks if he's been staying numb. He tells her that he's doing fine, while crossing out another line. The mirror shows a stranger's face, decaying at a frightening pace. The sunrise stings like broken glass, another day he'll have to pass. The light exposes all the gashes, another round of fucking clashes. He pulls the curtains, kills the ray, and sleeps the precious light away. The others flew so long ago, he wonders if they'd even know. They circle somewhere high and pure, while he decays upon the floor. Their feathers shimmer, white and clean — he hasn't felt that since fifteen. A final breath, a quiet sigh — a broken Angel learns to fly. No need for pills to reach the sky, just endless peace behind the eye. The needle drops, the struggle ends — he floats to where the light transcends. They’ll find him when the morning breaks, the silence everything it takes. An Angel needed pills to chill — and now, at last, he's truly still.