Flies buzz about as you open the dumpster lid.
“Hello,” you say to the angel within.
“Oh, hi,” he responds, with a voice like birdsong. A halo of shadow and garbage encircles his head.
He has black hair and wings that are plastered with eyes. His skin is pale and his cheeks are sunken. Ribs jut from his chest like hands clawing upwards-- begging for mercy, or water, who knows.
His wings are downy with edges rounded, much like a moth’s, and he keeps them folded over his chest. The eyes that line them are rimmed in thick purple lashes, with lavender irises. There are no eyes in his face.
“Remind me of your name?” he says, innocently enough, but you know better than to give it to him. He asks every time.
“Enoch,” you say, and place the black garbage bag over his pale boney knees.
Thin lilac lips twist into a frown.
“You always lie to me,” he whines, this emaciated man with wings covered in eyes.
“Yes,” you say. He reaches for you with atrophied hands.
You close the dumpster lid, then, but softly, so as not to startle him.
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