When they return, they all seem to come back with a story-
men love stories, protest as they might
but they bring me armfuls about how great they became in my absence
without me miraculously.
They could achieve suddenly
Only having met me first, of course, so
they venture off determined
They yet return
As worshippers must
Time and time again
Just to let me know…
They will come back and say did you know I ran a marathon they will come back and say that they traveled across the Great Plains states and sang songs to bison to get them to sleep-
They will say that they traveled east and west and noticed that in Arizona the women there love to wear caftans everywhere, all day and all night, and it didn’t dawn on me until recently that when they came back, none of them ever asked how I had been.
They’ve never seen my caftans.
No one cares for the gods. Do they? None of them were interested in my stories from when we were apart.
I’d endeavored to forget they existed but they return.
What did I do without them?
It’s never how have you been but a preemptive I hope you’ve been well- I took that to mean nothing at first, but now it seems that it’s because they genuinely were never, and apparently after distance and time still are not, interested in me as a person.
Men and their stories.
To them, I’m not a person.
Have they gone off to conquer and only feel worthy of my gaze and attention when they finally bear stories of scars that might impress me?
Would they like to see a mountain move or be blessed by its shade?
They’re interested in me as a symbol.
I see this now. Apparently, I must be so magnificent in their eyes that they feel like they have to tell me of what they have conquered to be in my presence again. I need to know how much better, more worldly, more in tune with reality they are today than when they succumbed before. Older. Wiser. Stronger. They don’t see me as a fellow human evidently. It’s frustrating at first.
Now I see.
They never offer me money when they return, or titles, never strategic plans for new relationships, or the severed heads of kings.
I see. They clearly see me as a goddess of good luck and I feel like that makes a lot more sense and it also makes it appropriate for me to never speak to them or talk to them because why would I?
How is that lucky for me?
Especially when they only have armloads of pretty worded narratives.
Perhaps gods have feelings too.
They can never be enough for me and they know it. The trick would be to love me but they can’t. They can only love themselves through me. Selah.
I will not offer any comfort to any of them again.
My absence will not deter them.
They can just keep telling their tales and panting at the door, arms heavy with their wins and impressions and poems they’ve finally read.
I do love the dramatic and pathetic. All gods do.
Especially the ones with my name tatted on them, or have clung to worthless trinkets I’d given them, or photos that would be crumpled with bodily fluids had they not been digital.
Men and their stories.
I have nothing to say. I’ll keep being the great mystery they run to when the world is cold and indifferent. They’ve nothing new to offer so I’ll not let any of them in, again.
I wonder if they go look at trees when they can’t be on their knees to worship at my feet.
I hope that the mortal women that they have to settle for don’t sleep angry.
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My Mind, My Mood, My delicately poisoned pen... 