Hades Lust

[a poem in the form of prose inspired by a myth of legend]

And when he heard her name, he whispered it to himself.

Persephone.

And when he tried it again, Persephone, he carefully attempted to the make the sounds fit in his throat just right so that the corners of her name exited perfectly from his lips, just as she deserved.

Persephone.

He loved the way it sounded… like how peppermints taste: sweetly lingering in one’s mouth.

And when he saw her, a tactic began to form in his mind. And as it grew, so did his lust. And in turn with his lust grew sureness that he must have her. Hold her. Love her.

And all these things grew, in much the same fashion that excitement grows in the heart, traveling into the stomach and twisting that around and then moving into the fingertips making them tap and fiddle with everything around them. It grew until he was only a jittering anticipation. And as these sentiments accumulated, his brow began to glister with just the tiniest bit of sweat and his hands became the slightest bit wet as well. But it was not because he was fearful or nervous. Because he wasn’t as he would fiercely claim if you asked. He was just unable to wait.

So he didn’t. And without the slightest knowledge of him, Persephone was whisked away. Stolen. The flowers that had been nestled in the corner of her arm were strewn about, and the daisy waiting next to be picked, stood tall and wondered why it was still rooted to the ground.

Persephone screamed.