Apollo lies in a bed that belongs to a man he’s claimed, lips mouthing the names of Hyacinthus or Cyparissus, names of other boys dipped in ambrosia and ivory, immortalised, mortalised. The lighter in his hand doesn’t burn the long dreams away, but the ashes drip down and burn flowers into the stale sheets.

Sing for the gods who have had their hands taken away from them.

Tu’er Shen goes to the hospital for check-ups as much as he needs to, his body littered with scars that have healed, wounds that wouldn’t heal, wounds still fresh in mind. He didn’t die for this, but he will die for this again. Courage comes as natural as the way he reaches out for his cane in the morning, his sleeves cut, hands plagued with tremors and memories that are reality as much as things in the past.

Sing for the gods who have lost their way through time.

Mitra watches the waning moon at the edge of the world. The ocean lay stretched in front of him, under him, and the night tide tongues at his ankles, soft and gentle, barely teasing, barely there. But he’s drowning, day after day, driving all the way to the beach just for this. There is no nostalgia burning low in his chest, but he feels like it should be there. 

the moon appears every night with a misty veil over its head, softness emitting from its skin as if it is not a reflection of the remaining light. its hands burn cold as it touches the dying sun, lips shaped kindly as it whispers into its hair, hush, baby, things will be alright, this is how it is meant to be.

the old stars nearby and far blink in pity, new stars in confusion. but the stars that are far too old close their eyes, only opening them when the moon lets go of the sun.

♡ said: do you wanna hang out tonight? (10:43am)

♡ said: like as a date, maybe? (10:43am)

♡ said: if you want, that is (10:44am)

you said (unsent): wait (10:49am)

you said (unsent): you're gay? (10:49am)

you said (unsent): but yes, i want this. i want us. i want us to go on dates and hold hands and become that couple who does pda all the time. i want to put my head against your chest and weave my arms around you. i want you to kiss me like you were drowning and i was the oxygen you needed. i want us to move in together, adopt a dog or two. i want to grow old with you. (10:54am)

you said (unsent): but i can't, and you can't. we can't do this. (10:54am)

you said (unsent): i don’t remember how old i was but i was old enough for the memories to trickle into consciousness and plague me in my dreams. there were two men who lived across the street when i was young, hiding their relationship the best they could. but someone found out in the end because you can never hide love like you think you could. (10:58am)

you said (unsent): you don’t know how much i (10:58am)

you said (unsent): my mother had grabbed me by my arm and pulled me inside, told me she couldn’t believe how they’ve been living so close to us, how they’ve been in the community for so long. hell knows if they’ve been affecting children with their queerness. (11:00am)

you said (unsent): i’ve seen my best friend kiss the girls she like and i wonder why i can’t have that, why i can’t have this. (11:01am)

you said (unsent): have you ever fooled yourself into thinking something is real? have you ever forced lies down your throat and hoped that you won’t choke on them? (11:02am) 

you said (unsent): i want you to know all this. (11:03am)

you said (unsent): i’m sorry i'm such a coward. i'm sorry i grew up resenting myself. i'm sorry i'm so full of guilt. (11:06am)

you said (unsent): trust me, i've tried. (11:07am)

you said (unsent): please believe me when i say this. (11:10am)

you said: I’m not gay. (11:11am)

ii. they often ask you why you chose to love a monster. you think of how he could have torn the world apart with his bare hands, yet he used those hands to hold you night after night, wrapped tight around you, to keep you together. you shake you head. you open your mouth, but you don’t have an answer for them.

iii. achilles was meant to be a god. gods do not kneel for mortals, yet he kisses you like you were the one who should be worshipped. he murmurs your name into your trembling thigh, a name that should not be worthy enough to pass a god’s lips.

iv. sometimes you wonder if this is what it feels like to love a god, to feel unworthy and overwhelmed by his attention. knowing he could have had anyone he wanted, but he chose you and what you can’t give him.

v. but most of the time you wonder if this is what it feels like to be in love with a mortal, knowing he will leave you soon. knowing he will succumb to nothingness, oblivion and eventually to hades.

vi. you wonder if you were worth his godhood.

vii. achilles was meant to be a soldier, a hero to be worshipped in stories told to children. he was meant to be perfect, untouchable. instead he takes your hand and defies his mother. defies the rest of the world. 

viii. you wonder if you were worth the death of so many men.

ix. people come to see his grave as time passes. truths turn into stories, stories into legends, legends into myths. people forget. they do not remember the curve of his smile or the way his hair shone under the sun. they do not mention his beauty could have rivalled helen’s. they do not know how soft his hand felt against yours, and how it became rough after years at war.

x. they do not remember how he gave up his divinity for a boy like you.

dear mother, no. i don’t want you to show me websites and suicide hotlines when all you ever do is guilt trip, some sort of magical, motherly love that i supposedly have from you. and i don’t think i ever felt it when you jokingly said i was useless and stupid and ugly and fat. and i’ll say ungrateful too.

dear mother, no. it’s inevitable that your child can look at a monster in the eye and think they deserve it. words coming from other people’s mouths will never hurt your child as much as your own words that has became their own voice, telling them that this is what they are and this is what they deserve. you taught your child to distrust those who say nice things.

dear mother, no. i’m not obliged to forgive you. you don’t know how hard it is to come to this conclusion, to think that it’s not selfish to be away from your parents who has done more harm than good for your mental health. this is one for myself, this is for the child who looks for affection and appreciation from teachers and tutors and other adult figures who isn’t connected to them by blood. this is for the child who doesn’t feel safe and comfortable at home. this is for me - past, present, future.

a: words stumble out of my mouth like a cacophony of thoughts that shouldn’t be said and shouldn’t be heard. i struggle to translate and transcribe the flashes of images and words and nothingness into sentences. i am trapped within myself, with my heart within my ribcage, and my brain within my skull. in my mind i am the victimiser and the only victim i have ever victimised is myself.