I waited for her here.
Atop the peak of a holy mountain that once held those grand and glorious without a sliver of imperfection to taint their godly existence.
But, the more that I look around, the height seems to shrink into nothingness and my fear of falling becomes a fear of losing the one I love. Olympus ground leveled, Olympus submerged into the mortal life. And she, with all her beauty and all her grace, was nowhere to be found even though I believed that maybe she would still stand out in a crowd of 9 to 5 suitcase warriors of Ares that thirsted for green paper and silver coin blood that ran the country. I believed that maybe she would still be a work of art entangled like a torn child between the marriages of one Zeus and one Hera - the wine and arguments stronger than the bond of woman and man. The Athena, big brained and skinny legged - her bestfriend - hated her for the way she caught the eye of men due to the way her body jiggled in all the right places on the street. Her husband, Hephaestus, too busy forging a better life for their children when she believed they had it all when she laid in his arms every other night when he was willing and drunk enough to hold her like he did when they were in love. She strayed from the bars she once loved to visit upon a girl's night out because the Dionysus of the tables might stumble too far forward and madly crash into her without merriment or consent. Her children all grown and off making moutains of their own, too busy to build the statue of the independent, powerful woman their mother once was and instead, forgot and left her to rot. I believed that my dearest Aphrodite would still push her sex forward without shame of what her body might look like to a stranger the next time, without anxiety of who might not want to love her because she, beautiful once, may not be beautiful again.
Man after man, woman after woman, she hid herself in baggy clothes that didn't show her fat curves or flex the muscle of her smile in fear that someone might strike her down with harsh words, screaming : you, miss, are not skinny. you, miss, are not a woman to me. Too afraid to strip in the mirror for her reflection might point out all the things that didn't make her a goddess - so, the blacks and greys would suffice to die out the color of her rosy cheeks and squeeze the gold that was once glowing within her eyes.
Aphrodite's insecure? They question, knowing the name as power but not knowing the woman who's too shy to stand atop the mountain I wait for her upon because within the walls of this day and age? She's nothing more than a woman. She's nothing more than a gender used for babies and sex. She's nothing more than a blade of slightly thicker grass in the field of those who sport vaginas instead of cocks.
And oh, how she misses being the goddess of love, beauty, procreation and pleasure.
But she feels none of that anymore.