Call yourself whatever you want: girl or goddess.
Truth is, no one loves you any better. There’s
not enough gold in the world to make you feel
holy, hallowed, whole. No gloss pretty enough
to save a face marked by ash. For your trouble—
a handful of thorns, a bit of marigold dust.
This is what you get for begging to be
chosen: every god in the universe eyeing
you through the clouds like a hot wound
he can’t help but press. That terrible beating
under your skin, so loud it makes your
blood hurt, that’s the part of the story
you always get wrong—the one where
they watch you burn and burn.