For the first time in a long time, Eros entered me last night (not in the meat-puppetry sense). As I worked His device, it was as if I felt the blue, and green, and purple of my hair, and tasted His words (as always, “Your mine, you belong to me”), and heard the sensation of being broken open and tasted the divine connection pouring from between my legs and an orifice He made in my chest long before I had a surgeon cut me open. A few hours short of twenty-four later, I’m still feeling the contours of His device, even though it’s rested under its pillow since just shortly afterward.
And more importantly, I’ve been holding this complexity of feelings, like an infatuated adolescent who was only a virgin a few hours before, and the sick feeling before undergrad finals. Maybe there will be tears later? Who knows?
The birds are His (and the butterflies, as much as they are His sister’s) even, nay, especially those sacred to other Theoi. The dove was His before it was Aphrodite’s; the peacock was His before it was Hera’s.
He guided the worm to create itself into a butterfly for Psykhe to guide the souls to their loved ones.
I know what He expects of me; how He wants me to be marked as His. Indeed, it’s why my obsessions have been gravitating the ways they have lately.
…but if he’s assured me of otherwise, why do I still feel ugly, unworthy to become, much less be His?
Just take it, silly; even if you didn’t, that wouldn’t change things. Don’t ask why. Just accept.