He Called Me Aphrodita

Oh Aphrodite, he called me your name. 

He said how could a man who wants to be with me not be jealous.

Look at you, Aphrodita. You are a walking goddess.

In the next breath he told me he wasn’t looking for a relationship.  

I didn’t understand, how could a man compare me to the goddess of desire herself and still not want me.  It must be because I am not good enough, said the old story lurking below the surface, the one I once made my bible.  But then I thought of you, Aphrodite. 

You knew you could wage wars.  You could burn the entire world down with the simple sight of your kestós himás(girdle).

I looked at this man in front of me—his full lips, glowing skin, the top of his chest daring me through his shirt, his hand resting on my silken thigh, that unmistakable Latin heat — a fire even you would pause to taste.

I looked at him and I knew I could have him if I wanted.

I have been here many times.  It used to be a game.  

Oh you don’t want a relationship?  A challenge.  No problem. I know how to birth an obsession.

Looking at this man… I thought of you.

You were never equated with war in mythic legend, not because you were afraid of it or couldn’t put up a fight, but because your desire itself was a nuclear bomb…too delicate to release on such an innocent and guileless world.  It would be too easy. 

Instead you found pleasure in bringing the god of war to his knees.

I looked at him and I decided to imbue your spirit.

To take his flattery not as a challenge or game to taste the forbidden fruit, but an honest decree.

A decree that this man in front of me could hold a goddess in his arms and never know what to do with her.