*ok I have no idea what this is, but I saw this art on instagram titled "Blind Woman in Love with Medusa" and I just melted??? it was so beautiful and cute?? so I wrote this thing down. first draft.*
I should be dead, really, I should
his blade should have slit my charcoal-gray neck in one raw, stinging swipe
pulsing, spitting thin liquid crimson
his shield baring my repulsive reflection, the one I despise so much
the one I hardly ever see because I try so hard not to look.
I should be dead, really,
but seeing myself ugly and monstrous in his shield gave me the fury of Hades
(no pun intended)
and I struck him down.
now I am alone again in my lifeless garden
the only flowers here are the ones tucked gently behind a young maiden’s ear
she is cold, gray stone now, and I have memorized her features
the flowers are violets.
I do not know how much time passes after that and I truly do not care
two more mindless travelers stumble into my garden
two more mindless statues adorn the withering grass.
but then one day
a woman’s footfalls treading lightly over stone
I do not see her, but I feel her anticipated breaths in the air, almost scared, almost
and I wait for her to come into the light
to scream, freeze in shock at my hideous visage
the writhing nest atop my head
my ashen, hollow cheeks
my dark eyes, deep like Tartarus with monsters lurking in the abyss
the one Athena condemned.
but she stares and stares, unaffected, beautiful, delicate
and I stare and stare, wondering, grotesque, pained
I realize, now, that she is not looking, her eyes are milky and useless.
no, she is feeling and smelling and tasting and listening
but not seeing, never seeing
I laugh and laugh and laugh, “has somebody sent you to kill me? you are the perfect weapon.
immune to my ugliness.”
she tilts her head, chestnut hair falling in a sheet
“nobody sent me. I am no killer. I am curious, however, as to why you are.”
“I do not try,” I say
“my face is hideous enough. whoever sees me is finished, and I cannot control it.”
I think of the maiden with the violets in her hair and how full of life she seemed
now trapped in an eternal wide-eyes raised-brows open-mouthed fear.
I tell the truth.
“An unwanted curse,” the woman says
unseeing eyes blinking, “I am sorry.”
“what ever for?”
she smiles slightly, and a giddy uncertainty takes to trembling wing in my chest.
“for nobody ever taking the time to ask
if you created your garden on purpose.”
I almost smile back, but I remember that she cannot see.
“either way, it is not beautiful,” I say.
“it is not,” she says, “but the fact that you know that, is.”
I smile this time and I know it is ugly, gray and unnatural
but she doesn’t see of course
she doesn't mind.
the woman leaves and comes back the next day
and the next, and the next, and the next, and the next
and she tells me about the way the salty sea smells after a storm
and I tell her about the way the leaves look just before they flutter to the ground like butterflies on gilded wings
she brings me a woven basket of grapes and nectarines
we laugh at the way the juice drips down our chins, warm and sweet
she tells me my laugh is beautiful.
I tell her that she is beautiful.
she is silent.
whenever she is with me and a traveler approaches, unknowing of my danger
she directs them away so they do not lay eyes on me.
my garden does not grow at all in an entire season.
when I tell her this, I find that I have begun to weep and I cannot stop
she embraces me and kisses me lightly on my marble-cold cheek.
the warmth of her delicate, rose petal lips stays on my skin until she comes back the next day.
she arrives, carrying nothing
she sits on the grass next to me
she says, “I love you.”
she takes my hand.
I say, “I love you,” and I almost begin to weep again but I tell myself that it would be foolish.
then she begins to weep instead,
a quivering smile on her lips, tears clinging like dewdrops to her lashes
and I tell her about the way the sun looks as it rises in shades of rose and marigold.
she says, “you’re beautiful,” and I do not protest.
I gather her in my arms and hold her close
she does not protest.