Persephone—
I do not speak to the queen.
I speak to the girl
who ran through wildflower fields,
not knowing
the weight of a seed.

They say you were taken.
They weigh the right,
they weigh the wrong.
A mother’s sorrow.
A mighty god’s deceit.

But they forget—
you were young.
You loved the surface.
The sun touched you
without asking anything
in return.

What was it like,
that first darkness?

The soil closing in,
the silence not of sleep—
but of being
buried
awake.

Did you scream?
Did the petals in your hair
wither at the sound?

They call you goddess now.
But once—
you were a child.
A child
made into myth.

And still—
you rise.

No longer only of the spring,
yet the blossoms follow you.
Even the dark
cannot unmake your glow.

Teach me.
Teach me how to return
without pretending
I was never gone.

Teach me how to smile
without lying
about the cost.

Teach me to live
with the echo of pomegranate
still on the tongue.

They gave you names:
Goddess.
Queen.
Bride of the Dead.

But I remember the girl—
the girl who flinched at thunder,
who pressed petals to her lips
before she knew
what it meant.

They say he stole you.
But what of the kiss
that did not burn?
The one you did not expect
to feel
so sweet?

Now you rise—
but you carry shadow
in your smile.

So teach me—
how to hold
the pomegranate’s weight
without biting back the taste.

How to walk
with roots in both worlds.

How to love
what changed you—
without needing
to call it
kind.