Persephone

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You picked me to be your lover because my roots grew into your hellfire ceiling.
Hidden they were to the light, digging into you.
They said that you captured me and that I had no say in the matter.
Yet, you were the only one who noticed what I lacked in nourishment.
I did not grow in sunshine and water only depleted me.
I needed a much thicker liquid and a craving for smoke.
You rolled the leaves of my tobacco with your bruised fingers,
Watered me with the elixir of death,
And lit me between your lips.
This is where my branches become vines of punishment,
As I grip your beating neck
And slither downward.
Here, I never burn out,
But when I do,
I want my ashes to be mixed with the paint of your walls,
So I can forever be a part of your cursed kingdom.
I am one fire away from burning marks on your skin
And becoming your tattoo.
You play with the matches made from my wood,
While I soak myself in your gasoline.
My body sprays these white roses red,
As my blood waters our shared stone.
Now, we can be in the same world.
Use these thorns to draw on my skin,
So, we now have a matching set.
Satan's hellfire landed in the California winter,
Only I did not want a season,
I wanted a lifetime.
Now I stand by your ruby palace,
That complements the obsidian of your soul.
Much like freshly cooled lava in the aftermath of destruction,
It shines gold in the darkness.
While my white becomes red in your honor,
You bleach yourself.
Pale stains cannot erase the plague you bring upon women.
Disease is a new title that fits in you well,
Let me ferment myself for your cure.
Get drunk off my liquid and high off of my fumes.
Drink me or I may soon end myself,
So that I have the pleasure of haunting you in your dreams.
Turn me into paper for your favorite book
And ink me with words never spoken.
We will write our own doctrine
And only worship one another.
Skin me to make leather for your shoes,
So that I may be with you everywhere you go.
You took me to mars and the planet turned red,
I fear we will never escape each other,
Even if I am dead.

An Ode to Muses to KleioWhere stories live. Discover now