shooting stars are sometimes just punishments

goddess; you are made of intertwined branches of olive trees with bougainvillea for hair; you have soft, pliant flesh and the blood of the ocean raging through your veins, irascible winds confined to form your eyes, and icicle beauty chained to your skin. you are blinding, made of dirt and dust but also the secrets we bury in it. you are tolerant.

but these cracked ribs get to you. their splinters stab your skin, lodge in your throat as you spit out torrents of spewing lava. you wish for sprouted flowers in metal cages, for forest whispers in place of the cacophony that surrounds you. and as your lilting voice stumbles over familiar words, you feel as though you might as well crumble to ash, because the earth is lifting you up, higher and higher. you see your creation and your regret laid out before you, one sparse and one decorous, both undeserving.

and suddenly your skin is gnawed, decayed with melting yellow pooling at your feet. the thunderstorm overhead rages on as you disappear.