Nemesis

One eye is enough, two eyes satisfy. When I catch you, rest assured it’ll be classy. I won’t cause your hurt, but I will definitely make it a point to be there and put pressure on the wound. I just have to step back and watch you unravel, then clap and smile like the belle of the hero, in a chagrined manner, with a stunning smile. I’ll make eye contact with you, but I won’t dare say a word. Good girls don’t get their feet wet. I don’t need to, anyway.

Nemesis, by Alfred Rethal (1837)

I put on a sequined dress so I can catch the light just right. I want to be glaring. Look at me, darling. Look at me sparkle. Watch me blow smoke. Inhale it so you can have one more taste of me. I know you love to hate it. Remember when you hated to love me? Remember when I coughed up blood because you were thirsty?

Now you’re shaking. You desecrated me, remember? You disrespected my girlhood, sneered at my ideas of justice, purity. You put me on a pedestal so that you could rip it from underneath me. You forgot I have wings though. You forgot they are dirtier than you. I may be fair, but my heart is blacker than you could imagine.

Kneel, criminal. Beg, vagrant. This is what you asked for, of course. I’m shining too brightly, now. The chaos overtook me, ravaged me, ripped me apart, and now I am steel. My fury is Hellenistic. You couldn’t have possibly foreseen this, but that is the white hot anger of justice you have awakened in me.

My blade is steel, cool, chilling on your sallow cheek. Feel the relief of that sensation before I make a cut, and brand you. The traitor. My traitor. My ickle baby daddy. Stain on the cloth of humanity. Vermin.

I am immaculate, I have taken the crown of thorns and placed it on my head. I’m telling you this because it’s a secret that will bind you to my throne forever.

Wink, wink, hubby. Welcome to the final act.

Hint: it’s a tragedy.

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Let Them Paint Rainbows

rainbow

We’ve watched you for eons.

You’ve untied yourselves from our careless fingers long ago, but the new control has made you falter. We immortals know that you lead lives like mayflies, seeking little things to make your confusion more bearable.

We watch you try to handle the mess you’ve created. The society that once thrived now hangs by a single string of sinew. We observe in determined silence as you gas each other in the name of new Gods, beat one another to a pulp, and kiss the blood on your bruised knuckles. Children are empty and bloated, crying for justice.

Sometimes we like to discuss all this like stuffy movie critics in an abandoned theatre. The tunnel, for example.

“Wicked,” breathes Persephone, flowers escaping every crevice of her body. She means “wicked” in every sense of the word.

“They are,” mutters Aphrodite while examining her nails, the faint smell of saltwater still clinging to her skin.

“It’s called a rainbow,” I explain self-importantly, “How quaint. Even the name tells us something about their nature: as it rains grey and the sky rips itself apart, a small ribbon of sunlight pulls the entire thing together like a present. Thus, a rain-bow.”

“It’s just a silly metaphor, Athena” says Ares to me, his voice which used to scream battle cries now cracked from disuse.

“For what?” ventures a humming Muse from the stage. Her sisters sit around her languidly as they play with each other’s hair.

“Themselves,” he answers with gritted teeth, “they make things pretty to ignore the world falling around them.”

“We disagree,” the Muses harmonize, notes dangling dangerously in the air, “they paint, sing, dance, and create, all for the strength to continue.”

“’Continue’?” Ares drawls.

“They chant your name as they march into battle, don’t they?”

“’Battle’?” he scoffs softly, “there is no ‘battle’. Only destruction. I don’t stand for that.”

“They seek hope,” the Muses continue, strumming chords on their heart strings, “they create beauty to assure themselves they aren’t responsible for only… destruction.”

“Their creation doesn’t outweigh their destruction,” Ares growls.

“Oh, come off it. They’re hardly living in the Garden of Eden anymore,” I sigh.

“Yeah, they screwed that up almost instantly,” Hera snaps from her dusty throne.

“Listen, it’s about their own concern for happiness. Look at this tunnel. It exists because a boy from Norway thought it was depressing that no one ever looked up as they walked through the city; he gave them a reason to.”

“What the hell is Norway?”

“Oh, never mind. You’re hopeless.”

“They’re going too fast, and they know it,” Ares grumbles, pulling his helmet visor shut as he leans back, ready to doze some more, “they don’t want to accept reality, so they make things ‘pretty’ for the sake of having something pretty.”

“They’re trying, though,” I whisper, peering again between the cracks in the clouds, “Humans are flawed because we created them. Let them have hope, at least. Let them paint rainbows.”

I, Hestia: A Slam Poem

The Fire sustained me. The Fire was my essence;

I twirled my wooden poker stick like a magic wand

Tracing blazes across the purple galaxy.

I connected the white hot stars hanging by screws around me

Stringing together the people I loved

Like spots on a map.

The Fire consumed me.

It melted its grate and licked my fingers the same fingers

That I used to count off the days I spent kneeling over.

`

It warmed my stone heart, cracked it open,

And soon, revived it.

A miracle.

I am blood. I am iron. I am strong.

I am balance. I am passion. I am home.

  Continue reading “I, Hestia: A Slam Poem”

Hera

She is a deity, queen of all and temptress of nothing. She is as hollow as a sere pine tree, rooted in her traditionalism and stultified by the careless cataclysms induced by an unfaithful, obsolete husband. She watches warily as her peacocks of vanity mimic her now deceased grandeur in a moving dance of shiny feathers. She coaxes her heart, which once burned bright with internalized rage, into a cold fractured stone of severe heartbreak. Her youth is withered and her sorrow holds her in a chokehold,  as she is ravaged by a black hurricane of indifference.

But beware, because underneath the arid depression she wears like a cracked mask is her true self: a brilliant quasar, made up of everything she ever tucked away. Her thin voice calls out into the misty mess of humanity.  Her ravenous hunger for truth is bursting through her galactic force of will, which she forged in the dying embers of her ancient heart. Don’t let her childish stubbornness fool you: her rage thrives at the center of her ‘hollow’ existence, more destructive than any weak myths that swirl around the obstinate idea of her. She will do anything – and everything – to achieve her own happy ending… even if it means ripping herself apart in the process.

Letters from Demeter

Dear Hera,
I received your letter on the gossip about my daughter, Persephone, and her husband, Hades. Very informative. The fact that they’ve separated and are living on opposite sides of the Underworld is very scandalous, you say, but I’m hardly surprised. The sanctity of marriage is at an all time low… Oh, I’m sorry, wasn’t that your area of expertise? No offense, I guess.

Continue reading “Letters from Demeter”

Sweet Daydreams & Bitter Reality

If I were truly extraordinary, where are the tornadoes taking me somewhere over the rainbow? Where are the alien invasions? Where are the flaming Chimaeras? The time travelling? The magical wands? The supreme lord of evil whom you have to defeat?

Those people on the street, avoiding everyone’s critical eyes, walking in speed-walk. They’re suspicious characters. I eeeever so want to be a suspicious character as well! I want to have a mind-blowing secret, one that changes my life forever, but not a realistic lie, but a weird, odd, eccentric, ludicrous tale that’s truly true! If only this could happen! If only I could be a wizard fresh from Hogwarts, keeping my head down and avoiding any run-ins with death eaters at twilight, roaming the cobbled streets of London, or a half-blood on a quest in California, making small miracles of nature and avoiding fire-breathing sows.

IF ONLY.

The words that rule my life. The rules that swallow me whole. The realistic world mocking my dream that will never come true, even though I ever so want it to happen.

A summer night’s dread, I would call it. Summer night, oozy and drunk with the longing to sleep, collapsing on my bed of soft blankets and fluffy pillows, closing my eyes, and entering my dream world. I slay dragons. I conjure magic. I meet my favourite mythological heroes and made up creatures. I prowl the forest of eyes, fly in the sun-setting sky, and escape evil with nothing more than a few scratches.

Then, alas, I wake, shivering, forgetting, the dream already rapidly oozing from my head and getting lost into the world of nothing and everything. I dread this. I dread also, knowing it can never happen.

BUT I BELIEVE IT DOES. A sentimental pep talk would say in your heart, but it is truly INSIDE MY MIND, layered with millions, if not gazillions of thoughts at the same time…

It’s why I read. I sometimes believe that if I read enough I could be swallowed into the books. Be part of them, literally. This, in my heart, and mind, I know is not going to work, but I do it anyway. I want to believe it to be true.

That’s why I am so weird, odd, eccentric, childish, and cliché. I am a live character looking for the right story.