Poetry
2 min
Persephone Girls
Felicia Perez
This story is for all the Persephone girls. All the girls who aren't sure whether to dance in the sparkling mornings of spring or to let the darkness claim them. This story is for all the Persephone girls. All the girls who know that they can be both; are both; were born both.
This is for you, child. I see you, and she sees you, too. You put on your summer dress, then apply 1, 2, 3 layers of eyeliner, because screw the world and their unrelentless desire to stereotype women. You work hard all day, writing and biting and pulling— pulling against your restraints. They say you shine, you know. In the moonlight, you glow.
But deep, deep under you don't see the moon. Have you been to the deep, deep under, too?
I can smell the pomegranates on you. At the bottom of it all, you sit, scraping the seeds from the skin of your mother. The jewels spill out, staining you forever.
You do not wonder, as the darkness caves in on you and the seeds bleed into your palms, why she ate the pomegranate. You do not need to name her anymore. You know who she is.
There are no mirrors where you are, but you do not need a mirror to locate your own soft lips. It is one of the beauties of being human. What do you do with a gift that the gods don't have?
There she is, Persephone, sleeping in her orchard. In sleeping, the shadows of the underworld caress her face, painting her with death. Even in spring, she is Queen of the Underworld.
You stand on a stage, belting out a song for the school-wide talent show. You must've been nine, but you were already dying. The crowd applauds and you smile, basking in their glory. A queen, always. Dying, always. You were always dying. That's it, isn't it? The curse of being mortal. Because gifts always come with a curse, because you must have both, in a world of dynamics- of blaring lights and sudden, silent darknesses we call "blackouts."
You do not have balance, girl, you are it.
From her journey up from the Underworld, Persephone cowers. She stalls, just as long as she must, to tell him goodbye. "I'm sorry," she mumbles, "I'm sorry for always having to be both." He does not accept her apology— he never does, but he lets her go, lets her drift into the arms of a grasping mother.
Across the River Styx, Demeter stands in waiting. She reaches out to her, twining her fingers around her daughter's wrists. For three months, she holds her there. For three months, the goddess is spring.
Sometimes Demeter doesn't even notice when winter comes. Sometimes she just wakes up, or rather drifts into consciousness, as gods do, and her daughter is gone. Because how could Persephone only be one? Because, even in her bindings, she is not bound.
There it is, my child. There are your bindings. There is the flaw. My child, you are alive.
This was an entry for a writing contest held in conjunction with Center for Fiction and The Decameron Project
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