"He found me cowering in my hoodie, trying to light a rain-soaked Marlboro with a plastic rainbow Bic.

I couldn't see his face; I had to blink past the streetlamp shadows from under my hood just to see his shoes, but I knew it was him.

It was always him.

He owned me like a cancelled sky, shades of midnight and navy and bruises of 'I wish you'd drop dead.'

This was no different: the butcher knife fight was still fresh in my mind and I tugged at an earring, memorizing the way his shoes looked in the puddle's reflection.

I could still feel the metal; the copper taste at the back of my throat when it throbbed in time with my heart, spitting blood like they use in the movies.

But I knew he loved me.

My hood fell away; I felt his hand touch my cheek as if reliving the last scar he left.


He pulled me up into his arms and I let him tear himself down; his tears tasted like self-destruction.

He whispered and sang and rocked me in the bitter moonlight, promises fading because the stitches he used just wouldn't hold and he knew it.

'Angels don't die'

and I laid next to a wet cardboard box pretending it was home.

'Angels don't die'

and I heard the clip slide lovingly into place.

'Angels DON'T die'

he said and then it was over again.

He always did want a white wedding."

10:18am 2/6/2006