Aphrodite Aphrodite

Maybe Aphrodite was tired.
Tired of being the goddess of love, and sugar and spice and all things pretty.
Maybe she wanted to be more than just that. Maybe she wanted to be someone else.
Maybe she wanted to burn cities to the ground; so that her name would only be spoken in fearful whispers.
(Aphrodite, Aphrodite, please don’t burn our houses down.)
Maybe she wanted to seek revenge on all those who loved her just for her beauty. Just for her face.
(Aphrodite, Aphrodite, that’s not like you at all. You were always so polite.)
Maybe she was tired of being polite.
Maybe she was tired of being hushed. Words of silence shoved down her throat.
Maybe Aphrodite was tired of giving people all her love, and never having any left for herself.
Watching people skip off with her heart, never to return with it.
(Aphrodite, you’re beautiful.)
Well, maybe Aphrodite was tired of being only a beauty. Nothing more, nothing less.
She was kind, intelligent even.
(Oh, Aphrodite.)
She wanted to be seen as more than that.



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