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Quilled into the scriptures of the earliest greek mythology
I was a girl. Beaten.

She uttered this in the moonlight of my room
Appearing on my balcony, atop my red sofa just as I was reading of her existence 
My literature books had spoken of her monsterous nature
Yet as she hands me her wine
Commands me to listen
I cannot help but notice her eyes
soft and kind
Her presence, uplifting. Caring

She warns me of her portraits of fallacy
Urges me to read her gospel instead
Shows me the chains on her wrists
Her honor has been tainted through malice

Her dress; once calm and cool
Light; 
Is now ebbing in preparation of a storm
As she rattles against her chains
This is not the Aphrodite from my books
This was a warrior
Locked in a cage too slight for her fury

I exist again
Here to tell you my truth 
My voice and truths have been left out of the scriptures
captured in paint cans
sealed tightly with rusty metal lids
tucked away behind a cob-webbed dusty shelf to be forgotten
Because it was Man who got to write the stories of my birth 
They branded me woman. 
And got to define it what it meant
When they saw things in me that didn’t mesh well 
they broke them off. 
Called my revolting a craze
My mind, nothing but a storm 
Couldn’t even bother trying to comprehend it all together- 
that I could be bloody and beautiful, 
that I could be divine and approachable.
But i was created  only for your eyes to look
 only for your hands to
lift
 to your mouth -
 In awe
 

these days
aphrodite wakes up 
In a perfectly silver bedroom.
her hair down and wispy,
her eyes tired
Wearing a shirt that says feminist.

Finally, I go against my nature, perch on a comfortable red sofa with a girl who calls me friend 
There’s a comfort here. 
That I haven’t experienced.
The company of other women. 
I pass her my wine and tell her that there is some confusion 
About women, their heritage and Aphrodite 
And it’s time the truth takes the world by storm
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