I am not the celestial body I appear to be; I am not an angel, not a god.
My wings are only makeshift, handmade and given to me
By a father who warned me not to fly too high.
My pride has always gotten the best of me.
I would not stop until I had saved everyone, including you—
But lately it seems like I can’t save anyone; not you, much less myself
From this slow spiral downward.
I should not be good enough for the likes of you.
My scars are reminders that I am not worthy of kindness,
And I wanted you to understand that before my demise led to yours.
But even after you pieced me back together, you refused to see the cracks in my chassis.
You bore my weight, like Atlas bore the weight of the world,
But I was a far heavier burden.
I found you are a star far beyond my reach,
And thought maybe that was why I wanted you:
Because your eyes hold all the rage and power of a supernova
Because your hair is the color of the stars,
But then I realized I needed you—
Because I dubbed myself a sinner but you thought me as a saint,
Because you could see the blemishes on my skin and call them constellations.
You were too perfect, too good to me.
And I am but a human playing at being a god,
Dodging affection the same way I dodge bullets.
I may love you, but I love you the way Icarus is in love with the sun:
Waiting for the moment that I fly too close to you and, inevitably,