My guardian angel isn’t in heaven.
She isn’t dead,
nor has she ever been dead.
She is very much alive,
and she lives about 15 minutes from me.
…Barring traffic doesn’t suck…
She doesn’t wear white robes garnished with golden sashes.
She doesn’t have glowing feathered wings.
Her hair is not white blonde hair, her skin not pale porcelain, nor her eyes a shimmering blue.
She wears torn jean shorts and printed t-shirts.
On rare occasions,
a pantsuit, but only when absolutely necessary.
Her hair is ashen brown and her eyes the color of milk chocolate; her skin has seen the sun during each season but bears no evidence of burn.
Hell, she wouldn’t get into heaven given the bible’s stringent rules if either of us believed in that,
which is bullshit.
My guardian angel is a 22-year-old college graduate with a business degree.
She’s a goddamn weeb,
she swears a metric fuckton,
and she works her ass off
…even for the assholes that don’t deserve it.
She is a mama bear.
Don’t dick with her cubs [read: her close friends].
You’re asking to get rekt.
(Seriously, don’t do that; I’ve seen the outcome.)
She’s a protector,
but also a fighter.
That last one is important.
Don’t forget that shit.
A grave mistake you will make.
Above all else,
she is my best friend.
If I could be half the person she is,
accomplish half of what she has at our age,
I’d like myself a hell of a lot more.
I love you, dude (#NoHomo ;D).
My dear Pseudo-Homo,
I owe you so much more than some stupid poem,
but I suppose…,
it’s a start.