Angel Of Death Poem by Bea Hayden

But how,
How can emptiness grow?
There is no substance to it but it
seems to spread like smoke in a
car,
my body a hotbox-
literally that.
hollow and full of dark space,
burning from the inside out.

theres a sense of pleasure in the
burning, though it only laces the
surface of my mind.
A slight pleasure for me, substancial pleasure for others.
See, this hotbox is not only representative of the
hollow shell
i have become.
I seem to be magnetically desirable
as i burn slowly, drawing in beings.
the wrong beings.
Seeing only the beauty in the flames, they become blinded by
the heat, believing that I am
anything more than a broken soul
in a
pathetic human suit.
In the danger they find invitation,
they see opportunity to love and they do love they love like God loves the angels.

yes, i am an angel.