Demon Angel

(May 2016)

My every encounter with you leaves me bruised

Needing to heal all over again

Sometimes it’s intended, sometimes it isn’t

Perhaps it’s not multiple wounds, but just the one

The one which has refused to heal

But is constantly covered up by dead skin

Every encounter with you, peeling off the dead skin

Revealing a wound so real that it is fresh

So same that it is old


My every encounter with you leaves me bigger

Wider, open-er; bigger

Every time I forgive you for a slight; real or perceived

My heart’s capacity gets bigger

Each time a vow of ‘never again’

Is broken before it is even made

Each hello at the other end of your call

Each buzz of a replied text

Is evidence of growing bigness


My every encounter with you leaves me smaller

Perhaps you are the thorn in my flesh

My own messenger of Satan

To keep me from exalting myself

Every tear shed and moment lost

The constant heaviness that is you following me around

Every confession of peace

Every confession for peace

The chanting and muttering

Of mantras unyielding

Keep me small and human


My every encounter with you leads me thirsty

In need of the One who is bigger

Lord knows He has been implored numerously

Release me oh Lord

Release me from my messenger

Take away this longing in human form

Hands of which have clutched my heart

Refusing to let go

I don’t know what it is

It is not love

Love is a choice

I have not chosen you

I do not know what it is

But I would very much like to be rid of it

Of you and your bruising ability



“I do not know that I want to have children.”

I will always remember the look on his face when I said this to him, that first day we met- part awe, part…something. Something being a mix of crestfallen (because, otherwise, you’re perfect), and wary (because, what horror stories does this one have that she does not want kids?)

“No, I do not mean that I don’t want to have kids; I just don’t know that I want them.”

“Okay… ”, he responded, almost shakily.

I do not know that I want to get married.

When I was 26, I toyed with that statement so many times, trying to work up the courage to tell my mother. I wondered if I would be able to explain to her that I wasn’t saying I did not want to marry; but had merely not decided if I wanted to or not- if I would be able to get this clarification in, between her screams of “what did I do wrong” and “this child you will not kill me”.

And even if I did, would she hear me?

I do not remember if I was born questioning, or if I picked it up at some point. But I know that, now, I question most things. And not because I feel like I should, no; I mostly question because somewhere in between growing through shy teenage years into young womanhood, I developed a keen sense of wanting to understand things. This is how it’s done or been done or should be done has never been enough for me. I always want to know why.

‘Why’ has become a big part of me.

When did you know you wanted kids? Did you even know? Or did you just…have them?

When did you know you wanted to marry? Did you even know? Or did you just…marry?

I don’t always get answers to my ‘whys’. Sometimes this is okay. Sometimes I may not understand something, but go ahead and do it anyway, because someone I respect has asked it of me. These times are not many, but they are there.

I do not understand how life-altering decisions such as the decision to marry, or have children get little or no critical thought from many people. We just grow and are expected to marry and have children- like it is some fundamental stage in the growth process- like how your voice breaks at 13 and your breasts burgeon at 15.

But it’s not quite the same, is it? Because you do not have a choice about your period or your breasts. Or your pubic hair or cracked voice. Getting married is not biology. (I hear you say having children is- but is it, really? If it is, then why bother stop it? Why not start having them as soon as you’re physically able to and not stop till your body stops?)

That is not to say that one should avoid all things conventional just because they are norms-no. But norms become so for a reason, and it up to us to find and understand these reasons, and decide if they work for us. It is this process that makes us certain/unwavering in our decisions, whichever way they turn out.

And so in this moment, as I with a blush say yes to my person who’s holding in his breath on bended-knee, I know more than anything that I do want to marry, and more importantly, that I do want to marry him. There is no unsatisfying why hanging over my head, as he slips a beautiful black cubic zirconia onto my finger.