each

take a piece
don't share it
it's yours to keep
like a secret

call me angel

you might have said my name
but then you called me angel

and i grew wings damned
by gods and the color of my skin

damned to a cold sweat with fever
rising in my blood like poison

wings that crashed out from me
alongside thoughts and the desire to kiss you

visions of how to use them and the thought,
the idea, this, the thought of a promise

that if you let me use them
i could keep my weight off you

if you let me lie over you
i could protect you

from the pain in your ribs
if you let me make love to you

i could use the wings you gave me
to keep you comfortable

i am not a writer

i may tell stories
i might communicate ideas
transport feelings through words
direct hearts via rhetoric
but i am not a writer

so listen, so wonder
with me
riddle me this
i tell stories
i communicate ideas
i transport
i direct
but i

am not

a writer.

what am i?

scare

a phone call
in the middle of the day
from a family member

instead of a text