#doomedpoets

Ignoring me has never deterred me. I live under your skin, I’m part of your soul.

Tell me the blood of gods spilled, and thus were born my ancestors. Tell me I carry war and siren songs in my ribs. Tell me you see empires in my eyes. Tell me I'm pure tell me i could never be infernal could never be hellborne could never carry crackling cackling curses— Tell me no lies.

The moon has me in tidal lock. 
 I imagine my lips on his. My hands in his. My body with his. My mind is in a dense daydream, and I cannot tell what’s reality. 
 Is this what my mother felt? The feeling of being high in a smokey euphoria, that she gave away her body five times to a man. God forbid I repeat her footsteps and give myself away four more times. 
 I am afraid of the consequences for throwing myself over a cliff. 
 In this fall, the moon is my witness and she is responsible for my madness. She calls me Icarus, she calls me a foolish woman. She calls me Izanami, who burns. 
 I am Lilith, angry and lustful. 
 I am Juliet Capulet, naive and unfortunate. 
 I am Lady Akashi, who sacrifices and suffers. 
 To love this deeply is my grave mistake. My mistake in which it brought me the most happiness. 
 If I love this harshly, it may create my soft landing, my soft death. 
 I ask the moon for help, but instead she smiles and watches me fall. 
 I’ve asked too late.

Time is a construct split in three — the only law of the universe that cannot be violated by divine beings — they adapt, waiting for Ragnarok's biting cold.

Apollo does not understand moderation; when he loves it is with his entire being: ivory bones aching, ichor filled veins singing, marble skin burning. No matter how many times Eros pierces his heart with gold-tip arrows, he throws himself without regrets.

Time is a construct split in three — a moment or two — the switch between an instant and the next; Gods blink the dust from their eyelids as the centuries pass by.