Minutes before I cut, the angels shove another tidbit. Maybe just a ray of delight to keep me dangling.
Like a picture of a little girl so cute, overhearing a really funny joke, a memory of some past or future glory. Anything to make it worth living.
Seconds before I slice, I see some fluttering butterflies. No longer do I wonder how they manage to come inside, where there are no flowers.
These are my irregulars, is what they call them in the trade. Part time shots in the arm for a tattered spirit. Then they fly away before my awkward questions need to be answered.
What do they get paid? How much for their specialist job of torture by the minute? For every minute they keep me going, maybe they earn for themselves that minute too. A butterfly’s lifetime plus a minute and counting.
I will never know if I was really being kind to let them hit me with a little more hope, each time. But only so little.
Guardian angels hate my guts. So they send hope by salami tactics. Moments before I lift to my lips that cup of sweet, alcoholic poison, a flower blooms in the corner of my eye, a mysterious fragrance distracts me, in the distance, sounds of a flute and fingers strumming.
On the deepest, darkest, heaviest of my clouds, is where my guardian angels hang their blasted lining.
Sometimes the dawn is delayed and I get too seasoned to pretend it was even coming. I pretend I have convinced my angels that I am commiting suicide by simply not moving.
They wait in glee for me to writhe in painless agony. They have a philosophical discussion about whether there is any pain in it. But with every breath of “Fuck You,” I have been practising.
They are guardian angels. They know I cannot die like this. So there is no need for them to get worried. So, it stands to reason that guardian angels should let me practise and practise and practise not even moving.
I don’t even hear the kitten outside the window mewling.