gods, r.l.

Q: why do we ache for godhood?
A: my hands shake, earthquake trembles too large for mortal form. souls take eons to build and seconds to shred, bloody fingers inches deep in a still-beating heart, blackened tongues and no words left after everything (only gods have eons to heal.) zeus’ splitting headache birthed athena and mine left torn wrists and sick sheets that broke the washer. time preserves nothing. ice melts and bones shatter and angry wasps peel skin off faces covered in dirt. (gods preserve themselves.) rebirth echoes in deserted canyons. decay howls back. flowers die and no one remembers their names. (who can forget a god?) if the lightning in my veins was ever divine it has become nothing more than anxiety. thunderous screams coat lips like honey. humans break so easily: too-white teeth splitting the skin of figs. red is such an ugly color to hold inside. (gods bleed gold.) we will never be something so beautiful that to look hurts, to look destroys, will we? we will never be anything but dust.

Q: why do we ache for godhood?
A, abridged: because we are afraid.