what a holy union, she thinks - small vulnerable boy, powerful athena of a girl. she could drink his blood like cherry wine, and all the while he would beg her to pour herself another glass.
she can read men in anything from greek to brail - this boy looked at her in plain english, a simple enough sentence: make me sacrificial. he all but offered his heart on those glowing eyes, those eyes like bright blue skies trapped in the depths of burial shrouds: she could see it, the deepest red and beating like clockwork, buried so deep in his underground skin she wasn’t even sure he knew it was there. he is another city to conquer, another nation to bring to its knees, and he is hers for the taking - she could see it in his hands, quaking like california faults, and in his skin, shining the news forth like ten o’ clock tv.
and it could be she is his too. in the right light she could stumble too deep into those eyes to get out - in the right temple she could bow to his altar, sing his hymns as he sings hers. athena has never fallen, but aphrodite has, and hard enough to shake the earth in its orbit. this two-sided coin of a girl is too sweet and too ripe to stay on the vine for long; soon she will plummet to the earth and smile the whole way down, bruises and bleeding be damned.
the cemetery he was in smells like clean, like old, like nature’s truest state of cloudless, silenced sky. she imagines his skin would smell just the same, with a hint of silver like his small smile and honey as his desire. and cherry wine for his worship.
she smiles to herself like a secret and feels her fingertips tingle with the honeyed-poison potential of war. he will crash down like a burning city, she may take a spear straight to the heart and fall like the greatest tree in a forest of redwood, but oh, either way it will taste sweet.
I hate when girls ‘that aren’t like other girls’ drink tea to be different like get the fuck out of here if you lived in england u’d be just like everyone else. I drink 6 cups a day just to survive and my nan drinks one every ten minutes so really you just like a million other people.
Ophelia goes up to the counter but before she can say anything the barista says, “Oh, we already have your order, miss, your father sent ahead.” Ophelia starts to say something but the barista continues, “and if you don’t like that, well, your brother also sent ahead an order for you. And Prince Hamlet as well. And also–”