When I was little, all I ever had to worry about were the monsters in my closet and not getting too many bumps and bruises. I believed in magic, hocus pocus, and Santa Claus. Nothing fazed me, and looking back on it, my worries were nothing.
Back then, when things were rough, I imagined dancing with angels. They had pure, golden halos, wings as soft as silk, and an essence I craved. If I fell and got a bruise or some bully said I was too ugly, my angels were keeping my head high and my hopes up.
As I got older, my angelic core seemed to fade away. My mind kept pushing all good things aside and I closed up. There was one point when I hated myself more than anything else. I constantly cried myself to sleep, and my life became dark.
How could I despise myself so much? My life really wasn’t so bad, yet all I could picture was a big, black hole. It told me I was ugly and no one in his or her right mind could possibly like me. It screamed at me and told me I was a horrible friend. It was as if Satan pulled all that was left in me to hell, and the next step was for me to jump.
July 28th, 2007, for the first time in my life, I hit rock bottom. My beautiful, innocent angels turned into devils. Their pure essence was now pure hate; their halos were now devil horns.
No one was there, and I was convinced I didn’t need anyone. I was completely lost in my own head and had pushed anyone and everyone completely out. It seemed as though no one cared; everyone was too caught up in the opposite sex, clothes, or money.
As July 28th came to a close, my hope was rapidly depleting, I was surprised as to who lifted my head. It wasn’t a family member or a best friend; it was someone I had just met. He took time out of his day to grab my hand and never let go.
It took a few months for me to realize, he was my angel. Sure, his halo was a bit rusty and cracked, and his wings aren’t pure white. None of my friends are perfect but it doesn’t matter to me.
Some people say perfect angels don’t exist, but I believe the imperfect ones do. Their disguise might consist of a shirt over their wings or too big of hair to see their halo; they might do things they regret or get a bad grade in school; they still get up even though they may have a broken leg, but for some reason they just keep dancing. As long as they dance, I’ll dance. I believe I dance with angels every day.
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