Los Angeles had privileged me in to becoming an angel after each death. The city, largely diverse, would cunningly mold legs to find me, arms to reach me, lips to kiss me, and hearts to crush me. Yet like an angel, I had always risen from the nausea that made a home out of the shattered bits of me. Like a mourning rose, I’d shed my petals of beige to cover the tracks of heart break stains. Once released, the smell of ocean breeze and palm tree leaves would hug the shadows left on bar stools and dance floors, until they drowned themselves in fancy glasses doused in Mexico’s top shelf pleasantries. And even then, as string light bulbs would reflect off aged libations, the power to see had been overcome by the power to move. It was above the 4th Street bridge where shreds of the past were lifted off piss stained sidewalks and art clothed poles. It was neon signs on Flower, 5th, and 6th that flickered as I brushed my wings along the estranged moments of almosts. It was a petite Parisian corner where I had my first taste of escargot and a beautifully scarred soul; a taste worth a thousand sinking petals as a memory so sweet could never succumb to regret. Death was presented simultaneously in a sudden change of pace for the city of angels, yet the usual ravished hatred could not take hold of my wings nor drag me in to patterned debauchery. My city introduced me to imperfectly packaged pain, while never allowing the one ways to cripple the evolution of a woman. Los Angeles – with every death, they rise.
-Downtown Los Angeles
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