her perfume-scented flesh was made from clay fused together with the spark of a soul.  her
image was to dethrone rival goddesses; let them fall wingless to earth with a head heavy of
ambrosia blood. but instead, a god held her body and let his tongue sizzle inside her mouth.
she let him unravel the knots in her body and twist them around a lone golden finger; let him
lace his hands through hers; let him smother her ribcage with plucked lilies while she dreamt
of kissing him under a saturated apple sky. this was the body of a butterfly whose swollen
mind echoed under gravestones – limp and peppered with the remnants of a rotting love and a
rotting flesh. she never wanted china plates or indian tea but a body no longer the colour of
chai because she wanted to taste cream and cool mint in her mouth. the god unfurled her
splintered wings, tucked his arms through the nectarine slits and let her bleed sugar into a
hidden celestite realm.