darling persephone:
they named you she who destroys the light and when you left us, the sun went out.
i wonder somedays why you traded your meadows and mother for four or seven or eight pomegranate seeds and then i remember that everyone who hadn’t lost you lied to you.
last weekend you clawed through the dirt ceiling and higher still, the sky’s blue caked under your nails, and for the first time in months i felt warm.
you live always in warmth, six coated in sun and six with the blanket of the earth pulled up to your chin, thousands of stagnant sighing souls crammed up against your sides.
am i jealous?
we all ask you if you miss the stars, the sea, the breeze, but i want to ask you:
do you miss the dark, persephone?
the lights of the underworld burn bright, i think.
i see them through my eyelids.
red.
yellow.
white.
do you remember april nights?
