as jupiter closes her eyelids, her eyelashes the constellations, her hands the milky way, her blood the red giants, she lands in a daze(more morose than sticky wine grapes) beside helios as he watches his discus slice the universe in half. prettily blinking, setting the grass on fire, her irises rolled up into her head tighter than a high strung astronaut(those things are quite annoying), her lips framing the moon in the only way that keeps him too close and too far away–a question rumbles out of her mouth as helios explains the heavens' discourses. a question about death that may grace you, my lord? she asks, her teeth like tombstones made of marble and dusted with seashells. to this, her lord does not answer.
you know, she sighs, draping her leg over helios' hips, watching that fucking plate come back and decapitate you is getting boring. the words drawl over her mouth like the honey she drizzles over it before she converges with him, making the long, drawn out sighs shake the earth until they collapse into the pacific ocean and make atlas curse out in pain(he's an asshole anyways). helios mumbles something in return, something she cannot hear, but something that raises the hair on her plasma skin all the same. they say that sol threw his vocal chords into liquid gold, setting them alight and making him writhe in pain until jupiter looked at him with enough scorn to piss off canis major.
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this is the 121st part in this book?? I probably have 500+ drafts unpublished with all of my books combined
YOU ARE READING
paraphernalia
Poetrypretentious poetry. FOREWARNING: this was written over three years. my style changes dramatically, as does everything else. quality of pieces varies.
