pipistrellafelix | poetry scraps

I am cleaning out / organizing my room, at the moment mostly my bookshelves, which are an unholy mess & entirely too small for the number of books I actually own. I ran across my journal from several summers ago, in which I journaled / scrapbooked / made to-do-lists (a lot of them) / took notes for Arcadia rehearsal--which made me horribly nostalgic to read--& wrote scraps of poetry.

This is one of the scraps. Standard disclaimer applies to first drafts, ie, I have no effing idea what this means or where it came from; but for some reason I really like the tone of the narrator, which I find funny. I am not sure what to do about the ending (which I don't like). Thoughts?

You don't deserve this
level of perfection.
When I tell you I am an angel
I want it understood
that I am not being metaphorical,
or meteoric, or any of that.
In fact my total honesty
is the best thing about me
which is why I'm telling you now,
that I realized, over tea
and a pot of sticky rice,
that you may no longer
breathe my kisses or
feel my angel wings.