(no subject)

[apiphile]

Lot's Wife looks back at Eurydice

Here. You are snatched from a grip,
which has travelled to retrieve you,
and for this failure will go mad,
fouling the minds of his fans
with fuckboy lamentations
about the one who got away.

Here. I was told, too, never
to waste time on turning to witness
what was being done behind me,
while I followed supposed meek
at the heel of a husband
who loved something other than me.

Here. Put the lyre, the god,
the gravestone and the mourning pyre,
put them aside. Take my hand instead.
Know that I will, instead of weeping,
sweep you up with me, or else,
you take the salt I spill in your palms,
and lick it.