Woe to those who abuse the closest human bond. Curse upon those who twist the fragile mind of a lover, a friend. May their mind be infested with the rot of centuries of evil, what their kind brought.
The ability to love and be loved comes at a steep price. We gamble our affections on goodwill and luck. The curse of the lover is ceaseless wandering. It is a longing in our hearts. It is the dream of a cool glass of strawberry lemonade on a hot day of work. Those who feel Aphrodite’s strength in them often choose more souls to dote upon. It’s only logical we’d find a dud in the mix.
As a teenager I love the manic pixie dream girl. She was bright, lovely, caring, and often, broken not of her own doing. Some lover hacked her to bits, leaving Mr. Protagonist to pick up the pieces. We shouldn’t delegate our healing to subpart men, lest we find ourselves more broken than before. As the cursed of Aphrodite wander the earth, so do the blessed.
Call me a hopeless lesbian romantic, but girls (and enbies) have been my saving grace. The soft touch of my wife, the loving words of a friend, those all remind me of what she is beyond her damned. She loves those who change like the tides. She loves those who learn, even out their rough edges. And she loves those who take their suffering, experience it, then turn it into extacy. I cannot say I’m grateful for the boy who left me jagged. I cannot say I can forgive him for taking away my shine, my sunlight and barefoot clovers. But I still have love. I still have time. I still have soft girls, warm summers, Aphrodite, and strawberry lemonade.