discordia is dreadful necessity

sleeping outside, unsure where next to go yet sure it would end in death. none ever camped near the temple except before the feast times; none aside from the witches slept on the grounds, even on apollo’s day.

could not know whether the gods would curse me for eating their offerings, for sleeping amongst their statues but did know that the people passing this body would do whatever they pleased, most all unpleasant to my senses.

regardless, what was known — the hunger — one that appears only once a body has enough of itself that the spittle burns to swallow, same as eyes that never truly rested caused me to take rest.

to be acknowledged is to get knowledge, reminded daily neither meant for those like me, despite constant thoughts and urges. scarred body from before the realization — future sight isn’t respected until adorned in robes, and my veil is made of flies and discord.

the storm came for my life on the same night that another man tried to steal of my body — wandered away bloodied, with enough clothing intact that the rips could have been fashioned. mounds of flesh flash again, time irrelevant as it’s been since zeus locked his papa in the cave of NYX, down tartarus.