Over there stands my angry angel/and he's shaking his head in disgrace of me
She walks through the bar, cold, a snake in search of her prey. For this moment, it doesn't matter. He doesn't matter, and all that matters is this other toy, the object of her newest fantasy, in the palm of her hand. It doesn't matter what happens the day after, the repercussions of life. Liquid luck in her veins, clouding her eyes, lidding them in lust and a come-hither crescent. She wants you, you know, and you find yourself helpless in her wild abandon. The night sings, and she's all over you like a ravenous wolf devouring little red riding hood. And devour she does, though she shies away from your taste at the last second. Sweet torture, and you know this vixen will be gone in the morning. She's a by-product of repression, the darkest corners and figments of a regimented control who's gates have been compromised during a change in the guard. Is it her medication, the liquor, or anything in between that makes this so delicate and explosive? Your best-friend's girl.
She's off kilter now. The next day, vulnerable and wanting something to replace the solid weight of self-denial she's released. It isn't your problem, really. Let her go, be the responsible one: but you let her follow you back to your room for a talk. You know her better than herself, and you don't see her again for a while. A relationship severed, for now.
She's ill. She has no energy, and what little she has is based in pent-up rage and dissatisfaction at life. She veils the need to escape desperately, crushing the old road-signs that point into the woods of razor brambles and liquid release. She pops her pills as a life line, trying desperately for normalacy in a world where once again everyone is leaving her behind. Where she wants to be and what she wants to do are at a crossroads with her abilities, once again. When she gets what she wants, she finds it's nothing like what she wants at all. She wonders why life seems to be a party no one invited her to, but she crashes anyway. It gets harder everytime, and she can't fathom an easy in. She needs this release, but she can't take it anymore. This hell is nothing more than desperation borne of flesh and chemical reactions. Life the nightmare before death.
All she wants is that person who will wait with her, and be ready when she is and not before. That person who will open the door, and help without taking control. Is this instability, or the human condition?
Angry angels of life's inner workings. Demon's would be too easy.