Juno and summertime stories
the script is a personification of summer, and the sun.
come, let us venture around in search for the fallen down, warm pouches of sweetness.
​
a thousand and one ways to describe a summer day. . .
Juno. She's how you would describe the summer in a thousand and thirty four ways.
she aimed for the sun, because it felt just right. but she went too close, it scorched her skin with sweet warmth. And it made her stomach burn with honey, bees tickling and buzzing like the heat of summer.
as the moirai weaved, she gets her heart wounded by the sun, she was just another girl for him.
Juno was so close, she melted down into a puddle.
Juno's orange
I want to stay hidden in the womb of the orange, like a seed. the comparison depicts the bitterness in me for Apollo.
this unpleasant taste is cocooned inside tiny drupes of sweetness, away from the outermost layer of another bitter covering. perhaps I could forgive him, only if he learns to peel the thick outer skin that I've built around me.
safflower skies
I soaked myself in the blessed waters of eden's lake, shying away from apollo's scorching stare from above. his heated gaze threatened to consume me whole; it was sweeter than the apples of hespirides and burned me blush red, more intense than the alcohol in dionysus’ mead. the passion in his eyes knew no bounds. the warmth of his gaze reached me as i floated underneath the juice.
And before i knew, the waters had begun to taste overripe with his corrupt watch.
i looked up at the skies shooting seeds at the culprit.
eden
i remember lying down under a tree, and staring at the sun from the shade of the roof of branches and leaves. i wasn't alone, though. i had the fallen down dried figs watch over me, this wierd little girl.
everything in this garden was wierd anyways; figs as large as that of your palm. i would always find them somewhere, everywhere. whether it be fallen down on the grassy bed, or buried underneath, or even in my basket.
fresh from the tree, and also the ones being preserved by the sun.
they tasted like sweet pleasure, rich with seeds and pulp. you had to pick them at the right time, after Apollo had scorched them with his glare, but left them just overly ripe on the inside.
that field
i met a boy once, in the seabed of poppies. the lad was a mad depiction of the sun, hair like a spun of blazing warm sugar, his skin like that of a blushing sapodilla fruit. it appeared as if though he was molded by the maidens of eden themselves. his name was, apollo.
or so they called him.
his presence would shy away the hardest of butterscotch in broad daylight. and then he would meld away by dusk, into the dense skies that he called his best friend.