Isabella Delach '24
you gifted me a halo.
it had been plucked from threads of my heart,
strung taut with your smiles and grazes
and spun into silver,
shining from the timid leaps of my heart.
with delicate, chewed-opened fingers,
you took that halo,
with its breath of glittering truths,
and wound each string together
it glew in your hands
when you tentatively placed it upon my head,
fixing its little imperfections,
and watched as I smiled—
brightly burning all because of you.
it was then that my heart had been
wholly placed into that halo;
spun so delicately,
placed so carefully that it could have been
nothing but perfection
at its epitome.
but it didn’t look right, though.
so i took it and placed it upon you instead,
and i had thought you were even brighter.
you will be nothing to me.
the halo that had once flamed so viciously above your head
has reduced itself into ashes.
the strings wound with golden laughter have
frayed and thinned, shriveling into past reflections.
its golden gleam no longer blinds—
only weakly flickering—
and its remaining light will be lost in dying embers,
fading into oblivion.
those fingers that had once been so thin and delicate
are now chewed into pieces, so broken that
blood ran down your knuckles,
tainting the halo’s unforgivable purity
as you ripped it away from your head.
it fell to the ground before me:
every single piece,
and you watched as the light slowly faded away from me—
the death of an angel.
it was then that i placed every morsel of blame onto myself.
had i not been so bright, so fierce for your liking,
that halo would still be glittering upon your head.
starting from tomorrow,
you will be nothing.
nothing more than I will ever be.