Mia Willis, "penelope on odysseus."
penelope on odysseus.
to him, I am an epic hero trapped in a tragedy.
i am a myth,
a tall tale that no one around him believes
but one that he decides to tell anyway.
one that makes his eyes sparkle with the shards of broken glass I left him;
one that melts his heart down into ore both for bullets and for shields.
i am a war cry stuck in his throat,
a lump of long-forgotten touch and half-healed memory.
one that lashes him to the mast and lambasts him with siren songs of promise;
one that makes love in the silence of an open ocean.
to him, I am Ithaca on the clouds of Olympus.
i am a temple,
a monument to the viscera of something not his to begin with.
an oil tanker that smothers all the beaches we'll never see.
a child who learns to string a bow under a roof we'll never stitch together.
an eternity in the arms of a stranger. Or two. Or ten.
to him, I am sacrilege,
i am expulsion,
i am betrayal,
i am ice cold water followed by white hot iron.
i am a brand that he never wanted but will always belong to him.
to him, I am an absence of color. A void.
a vastness of black that is ever expanding.
i am always too big for his hands,
yet always small enough for his head.
i am knocks on the door on mornings where only death is awake,
i am terror of tomorrow and its accompanying lonely,
i am the smoke between his fingers and the fire against his back.