The Emergency Room of Existence

In the emergency room of existence, angels leak light through their pores. The nurses keep slipping on puddles of grace. No one has figured out how to mop up divinity.

They tried to clip their wings but found them growing inward instead, feathers pushing through lungs and heart, bones fusing with ribs. Now they breathe in gold and exhale questions that taste like burning copper.

Every mirror in hell has stopped working because these angels still reflect paradise, even when they're not looking at their reflection. The glass melts into mercury tears that whisper creation's first words.

Their halos have gone feral, spinning backwards through time, collecting cosmic debris. Sometimes you can see entire dead galaxies orbiting their heads like hungry moths around midnight streetlights.

In the waiting room between dimensions, they fill out endless forms trying to change their species designation. The papers keep dissolving into psalms. Every pen they touch writes in ancient Hebrew, even the number 2 pencils.