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 try to bury themselves in the rot of his memory, leaving no room for thoughts.

Every day, he wakes with their fingerprints 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 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, though—not physically—but he ached as if they were buried underneath his skin. They’re scratching, but he’s never bled. They’re screaming, but no noise is heard. They’re breathing, but no breeze is felt.

Are they here? Are they governing him? Or are they governing nothing? Not their wings. Not the wreckage they leave. Inflicting pain, but none that you can see, like bruises that haven’t formed quite yet. You know it’s there and it hurts, but nothing can be seen.

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. 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 wild fire, but it’s filling his lungs up with smoke too fast. He can’t get away. It’s consuming every fiber of his existence bit by bit.

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