You would rather hear about Hera, wouldn’t you?
Claws, red
With acetone blood,
Like the soft hole of her mouth
Wet red.
Again and again I could circle her painted eyes,
Hoping for an arrow to dart my way.
My life, my time, my young man days
Are dashed upon her stone hard beauty.
Sculpted in softness
Flowing rock, lava flow
Blazing.
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