Castiel

Sometimes, I feel like Castiel,

Angel of Thursday,

Waiting for hours, days, and years

By the same streetlight,

Waiting for a call

That you won't make.

I am the warmth, the light;

You are the emptiness, the frost.

I do whatever God wants me to,

But at what cost?

I am corrupt and lost

In a forest of your signals.

If you would stop brushing my hand with yours,

I would understand I am not needed,

That you and I do not have a profound bond.

Your eyes glaze over as you draw one card from the deck:

A frail skeleton, holding a scythe, surrounded by roses.

I love roses. 

I would pick them, even if they pricked me;

My blood always complimented the flower,

Just as the Lord's son wore thorns.

But you, you'd scoff at this.

The Virgin Mary watches over you;

You couldn't even satisfy her.

Why do you hold affection over my head?

I will flap my broken wings until you snap them.

I want you to hide with me

From all good and evil,

And remain neutral in my embrace.

But again, the card you drew determines all.

Michael resides next to me, whispering,

"Being a child that is approved of is worthless,

For you will never receive as much effort as the child who kicks and screams when your father sobs."

If you could even call God a father,

He has set the standard for most men:

To impregnate a poor soul with a child destined for suffering, only to abandon her.

I am no angel, although existence as one is only a dream.

I fell long ago for a man who will never love me as I love him.

I feel like Castiel,

Angel of Thursday,

Waiting for centuries now.

The streetlight has deteriorated,

But I am still convinced

That you will call.