Mere Mortal
For those moments when we aren't feeling our most confident selves.
Freya Carolyn
7/24/20251 min read
She was crafted by Gods, and I, a mere mortal who was once worthy.
Aphrodite herself carved the body out of the most expensive clay, then smashed it to bits in a jealous rage.
Left on the floor for me to gobble up like a starved lion.
I watch her enviously; not for her looks, they are hers and hers alone and all that makes her, she has nothing else, nothing else I say, she is impoverished and brainless and witless with only her beauty to her gain.
Envious of the power she holds over me - the depression I sink into when she enters a room. Her existence alone sends me into a spiral of insecurity and shallowness.
Sunken into a hole of hideous ugliness; air escapes me.
A feminist, I brand myself - but down with Glinda and her sparkling dresses, down with red ruby slippers and wine bottled heiresses.
She is almond-covered chocolate; she is chilled champagne; she is the bride’s bouquet.
Her otherworldly portrait crafted by the hands of Van Gogh, Da Vinci, Monet, my jealousy the frame that holds her majesty.
Down in the dirt, trapped beneath the weeds, goddesses flourish from a mortal soil.