By Tawnia Lives
Lips of an angel, flickering bright,
like fireflies dancing in the hush of night.
A shimmer here, a whisper there—
a glint in the darkness, then vanished air.
I reached for you, drawn by the snow,
never knowing your light was only for show.
Your warmth was a trick, a fleeting play,
soft as dreams… and just as fake.
The fireflies scatter, cold light fades;
the sweetness crumbles, truth invades.
You spun illusions, a shadowed game—
never in Montauk would you say my name.
Lips of an angel, soft with lies,
draped in charm—a thin disguise.
I see you now, stripped to the core—
a fire gone cold, nothing more.
And so I wake, with clearer sight,
from dreams you twisted, false as night.
Lips of an angel, hollow and sly,
left in the dark as I say goodbye.
— Tawnia Lives
Analysis of “Lips of an Angel: Seeing Through the Illusion”
By Tawnia Lives
When I wrote Lips of an Angel, I did not write a love poem.
I wrote a reclamation.
This piece is the moment a woman stands between illusion and truth and finally chooses to see what was always there—without softening it, without shrinking inside it, and without apologizing for the clarity that arrives when the glow finally fades.
The imagery is intentionally ethereal:
fireflies, flickers, shimmer, snow, night.
All forms of light that don’t last.
All symbols of something beautiful that cannot hold warmth.
Because that is what illusion often feels like—
not stable, not safe,
but pretty enough to keep you reaching.
You aren’t drawn to what is steady.
You’re drawn to what sparkles.
The poem exposes how charm can mimic warmth,
how softness can mask manipulation,
and how deception often presents itself as tenderness.
Even the “angel” imagery reflects how certain people posture themselves as saviors or emotionally elevated beings—right up until the moment the truth breaks the spell.
And the poem does break the spell.
Line by line, the shimmer weakens.
The glow thins.
The illusion unravels.
That shift is intentional.
Awakening is almost never loud.
It is a slow, quiet noticing of every place their light didn’t reach.
The line “never in Montauk would you say my name” is a deliberate cut—
a place tied to memory, intimacy, or promised belonging,
and the realization that the illusion never once made room for you.
By the end, the poem moves from longing into sovereignty.
The voice transitions from reaching,
to recognizing,
to releasing.
The goodbye isn’t rageful.
It’s clean.
It isn’t emotional turmoil.
It’s accuracy.
It isn’t collapse.
It’s embodiment.
The speaker isn’t breaking down.
She is breaking free.
And that, to me, is the heart of reclamation:
not the leaving,
but the seeing.
— Tawnia Lives
