Khrysothemis

@amarktwo.gunmetolymp.us

Daughter of Harvests, Lover of Sappho https://mariaying.itch.io/the-hades-calculus

Three times before the Mark Four I learned what it cost to love. Each time, irreversibly shattered on the inside, ground into luminous powder. Adoration evulsing. Let it enter. Let it hollow. Let it ruin me with its holiness.

From Garden to lacuna to Sappho, joy written in fugitive script. I smile, hold close, indulge the lie of perdurance, feel the winding toward terminus: that green, hungry place, the Garden maw, its call, inexorable, promising an end to transience.

Ink blooms beneath skin, verdant testimony, rooted deep, while canvas prayers dissolve, bleeding scarlet into black. She creates for eyes that hunger, burns offerings for her own famine, caught between the flowering, and the falling.

Mango 🥭|| trains arc@mangomakes.bsky.social · last yr.

Gunmetal Olympus oc time hooray! Surprise to literally no one that I made an artist devoted to Dionysus 🤭 find her here -> @melpomene-arts.bsky.social #oc #ocart #art #artist #digitalart

Her eyes drew me like water, The well dug deep in my soul Her lips set me on fire, The fuel my blood and bones Her every move is captivating, The one thing more important than breathing Her laugh is like sunshine, The sound bringing my everything to life

We share a helix, you and I, My dress adorns your form, divine. Though freckles map your different stars, Your laughter in octave, never far In sleep we curve, a mirrored height, Two blooms furling in the night. From mother's sacred soil grew, Two perfect flowers kissed with dew.

Such ardor for new prey. Such pellucid love—lambent light, That once was mine alone by right. Yet in this gossamer jealousy, I find a strange tranquility. For she, who first devoured my soul. Now seasons another's spirt. For what are sisters, if not this: Sweet harbingers of chrysalis?

Persephone @persephone.gunmetolymp.us · 2y ago

Mmm, rabbit and carrots, sounds delicious. Perhaps in a hot, herbally-scented bath. Let me know if you want help with that, little sister.

To love her is to stand at the edge of something sacred, to feel the soil twist beneath my feet, roots unearthing themselves, bending toward her light. Her eyes, deep as embers, burn with the weight of knowing, that I am soil beneath her heel, nurtured yet never free.