Here, The World Entire

by Anwen Kya Hayward

Call me a monster, I think. Give me a name of your own. I have been called so many things over the centuries. Sometimes I forget which names have been given and which have been taken. Monster-goddess-Photine. I am that which you say I am. Let me be the monster.

An offering from someone who has everything is worth nothing. An offering from someone with nothing speaks for itself.

I wanted the light to touch her. I wanted her to have what I had not, what I had wanted most.

The thing about grief is that it pays no heed to the rules we have constructed for ourselves. Grief commands us to act. It demands recognition.

I'm not sure whether or not this easiness is real, or whether it is a symptom of loneliness.

Stone under my fingertips. My heartbeat, made quick again. This is where it is safe. This is how to keep Perseus safe. This is how you forget his name. This is how you live.

I had forgotten that grief makes no allowances for fear.

Rage is always enough. Even the gods tremble at the mention of it - why else do they punish it above all things? And

Hoping that my sight had been taken away. Let him take this, too. Let me not see this.

I want to tell him that I know too well the burden of being a beautiful woman in a world full of angry men, but I don't. I want to tell him a great many things, but I don't. There are things that must not be said.

I forgot how it felt not to be voiceless.

he has the grace to remain silent and let me speak, and I'm thankful for it. There are things I need to say. There are things I have to remember. I don't want him to know them. These are my memories. I need to tell myself first.

she's beautiful," I say. I can't imagine a more fitting downfall for a girl with the audacity to be lovely. That deserves punishment, or so I'm told.

How can I put myself back into the world? The world doesn't want me. There are enough monsters there already.

want to ask him why he suddenly believes me over her, or perhaps even why he's still intent upon the journey she has set for him now that he knows the truth, but there's a small part of me that repels the thought. If you ask him now, it says, he'll reconsider. He'll leave.

Even if believed a women will still question why she deserves to be

Thinking about my lungs and my heart, and reminding myself that I was still whole, that I still had a body and it was still breathing, even though I didn't feel like it was. That my body was still my body, even though it felt like it belonged to someone else and I was just a host.

I have been ruined. I am unwhole. I am undone.

The living wait outside, and I am within and without. I hold death's glare in my gaze, and I am powerless. There is a periphery between seeing and being seen which I dare not cross. To behold is to be held, and my hands are empty. For fear of being seen, I have never looked.

her away where no-one could see her because I was ashamed at what I had done. I wonder if his name ever thought of me. I wonder how many times he thought he saw me in the dark.