A poem by latchkeyy
~*~
Galatea, tell me.
Tell me how long you lasted
before he found your flaw.
Your flaws which he created within the marble of your skin.
Galatea, tell me.
Tell me how long you lasted
before you realized his hunger and spite.
The impatience with your newfound humanity and imperfection.
Galatea, tell me.
Tell me your flaws that he despises
and I will love them as if they were my own.
Every chip.
Every chink.
Every gray vein.
You may look perfect,
but that is truly inhuman.
Aphrodite gave you life and love
and with it, your perfection was soiled.
Galatea, tell me.
Tell me how you yearned to stretch your marble limbs.
The sun must warm your skin now the same way
his words must no longer fall on deaf ears.
Galatea, tell me.
Tell me how long you lasted before he learned that perfection is inhuman.
Tell me how long he put up with your nativity and curiosity and temper.
Tell me how long it was before he wished his little Galatea was a statue once more.
Galatea, tell me of your everything,
and I will love you regardless.
