ix. the cupbearer's scorn
His kiss is danger, his grasp unbreakable, his electric eyes dark with storms.
Disguised in winged gold, he steals me away, declaring me his.
I bring him his cups using hands that intend to drive a stake through his immortal heart,
The heat of my anger rivaling the thunderbolts which he so famously yields.
The name is Ganymede, a Trojan warrior stolen from the comforts of my home,
Made to serve the lord of the gods as the bearer of his cups,
Living the rest of my life withstanding Hera's jealous rage
And withholding mine.
