Born of purity and innocence,
It had done no wrong;
unable to figure out why others
constantly hurt It.

One day someone had stolen Its grace.
For years, not knowing anything was missing,
just feeling a sense of emptiness
Always feeling like it had been Its own fault.

Its soul had been covered in black hand prints.
These marks-permanently etched deep.
There serving as constant reminders,
It would never be the same.

One day, realizing the reason behind the emptiness.
It kept building up, and up, consuming all It is.
Depression filled the emptiness,
making It vulnerable.

Others saw this vulnerability and used it-
tormenting, branding, bruising, and breaking
the already blackened soul.
They did all they could to hurt It.

Every hurtful word like a feather,
being plucked, from beautiful white wings.
Wings full of purity.
Wings full of innocence.

Those hateful words, leaving empty holes-
empty holes from plucked feathers, hard to fill, hard to regrow-
no matter how hard it tries.
It always remembers the empty holes, even after being filled.

It takes everything It has to keep it together,
chin up, fake a smile, the daily routine.
If It acts like It's fine, It is fine.
Spending Its entire life convincing Itself that It's fine.

Eventually no one doubts it,
believing the act.
Wait, what act? Nothing's wrong!
Chin up, fake a smile, everything's fine.

It eventually breaks down,
unable to take the torment,
eventually giving in-
giving into the temptation lurking in every shadow- to end it.

To live in a world where It would rather expire-
rather expire than deal with the wounds of persecution.
Suffocate than breath laboriously
in a world where only one is equitable.

Later, a special few came and rescued the broken angel.
These few cared for it, loved it-
broken pieces and all.
These few saved It, helped It regain life, when no one else had before.

Now the earlier broken angel rescues others.
It shows them they were never really broken-
just lost, scared, and hurt.
It shows them that they will always be okay.