All the pretty angel boys are nothing but an afterthought, staining his taste buds like acidic lemonade. Coming in nightmares disguised as dreams—like burnt sugar left on one’s tongue—their laughter sharp and shrill. They bury themselves in the rot of his memory, leaving no room for thoughts. No room for positive thinking.

Every day, he wakes with their fingertips pressed deeply into the back of his eyes. It seems like they were trying to pop his eyeballs out just to escape, because they couldn’t scream. They couldn’t whisper. They couldn’t even speak in full sentences—just fragments. Just enough to make him question if they were even real. Or if he was.

They’ve never touched him—not physically—but he ached as if they were buried underneath his skin. Scratching. Clawing to find their way out, but he never bled. Acting like they’ve been left there to rot in the wrong drawers of his mind, leaking into everything else.

Maybe they weren’t angels? Maybe they were the parts of himself that he tried to bury—but he couldn’t.

Maybe they never stopped breathing. But they’re screaming. Screaming in his mind yet no noise is heard from the outside. They’re breathing, but no breeze is felt.

Are they here? Governing him? Or are they governing nothing? Not their wings. Not the wreckage they leave. Only inflicting pain. Not any that you can see, though, like bruises that haven’t formed quite yet. You know it’s there and it hurts, but nothing is visible.

Why do all the pretty angel boys cause pain?

Their words steeped into his words, staining everything he tried to say. The ink spilling on every page, consuming the words he’s written in a single, unstoppable sweep. He fails. But he tries.

He tries to speak. To feel. To cry. Sometimes, it’s no use. He tries to avoid the hope they bleed—the pain they bleed—like a wildfire threading through his ribcage, dissolving the soft parts first.

He coughs up smoke, but nothing comes out. No ash. Nothing. Just the taste of something ruined.

He can’t get away. It’s consuming every fiber of his existence bit by bit. He can’t do anything.

And all the pretty angel boys sit and wait, watching patiently—waiting for the right moment to take full control.