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Six Pomegranate Seeds, Winter in Greece

After S. Gish, D. Korb, and C. Awkward-Rich

Wonder if Greek gods get tired of waiting.

If soulmates are such a thing (and he’s convinced me they are), I still don’t see why I’m the one to wait for. Why isn’t it another immortal?

How can I, someone so full of flaws, somehow be good enough for that?

Am I ever good enough?

Only good enough for those as flawed as me–mortals. Can’t love a

Greek god back.

Call me later, love you.

If you told me “go tell it on the mountain”, I’d climb Olympus and scream until my throat was raw.

And if you told me to jump, I’d ask how high.

It’s a danger. I’m a danger! A danger to myself, most often than not.

(I end up hurting myself.)

So tell me again how you can love a mortal. O holy one. O mighty one. O hellish one.

A thousand Latin chants can’t save me from the endless maze.

A hundred breathing exercises can’t steel my heart against the pain.

A dozen snowflakes on my eyelashes and I don’t even feel it.

Six pomegranate seeds crackle in my mouth. It’s sour. I love it.

When I die, do you wait for me to come back?

Is there some 20 year period where it’d be strange to know me as a child?

Do you come back afterwards?

Or is it more like, pieces of me fade away as time passes, and by the time I’m dead, I’m already part of someone else, ripe for the stealing?

She’d like it there. Just like the lair.

If I’d known I’d fuck up this many times, I would shut up for the rest of my life, and for the next ones, too.

It’s been four years and I still don’t think I’m worthy.

It’s been four hundred years and I still don’t think I’m ready.

It takes a lot out of you when someone carves open your chest and steals the still-beating heart–remember when I said I steeled it, this was why.

Would you steal me away from the pain?

If I could make a change in this life of mine, I’d change the sorrow to joy.

Unlike that poet I can’t find one in the other. I go surface-level. Skin-deep.

Differences between you and me–how much has it afflicted you?

When I tell you that my father didn’t like me either, does it make you feel more human, or does it make me seem more godly?

Or are we both just the same?

The same chthonic cloth. I’ll let it be.

I’ll give you my blessings that only came in 2,000 years ago,

You can give me the things that’ve been around since before the common era.

I still think we can love each other.

I still want to love you.

I still want to love myself, one day.

It’s a cold day in the Parthenon.

Wish you were here, keeping me warm.

Hand on my heart (my stupid, honest heart).