Work Text:
pygmalion crafted galatea, lay his imperfect eyes and hands on the ivory girl but we were both selfish in that way— coveting something that was too perfect. while, pygmalion created galatea, you were not mine to hold or behold; you were not created by me or for me.
i might have stitched you back skin to skin, acknowledged that you were the brightest light— calling out like a lighthouse in the hellish seas, a beacon of beatific beauty and maybe, that's blasphemy. i branded your soul, creating one imperfection while ridding your skin of all else, every scar and that was not my place but i consoled myself thinking: you will not be able to erase the scars on his conscious, at least let him have this. i bloodied your skin right after your resurrection, i shattered glass on you; i hoped, i want— it was selfish to hope for your remembrance, to wish for your faith in me when you barely believed in my creator. it was not angelic.
i might steal
touches while i heal—
it's not angelic, i'm no angel but my heart isn't all human. this angel heart of mine is like galatea, cold hard ivory that turned warm because of love, not yours but mine. but also yours because everything human i have came to me by you. pygmalion asked aphrodite's blessing for his love to be real but my god considers this a weakness.
i'm hunted, i rebelled and i did it,
all of it, for you!
it's not meant to be an admonishment,
it's supposed to be an announcement
of angelic anguish i feel, for first time
what it really means is—
don't you know, you did this to me?
pygmalion might have created galatea, her beauty might have been of his ownership and i might have molded you back from shreds, cradled you soul in my hands but you carved my hands into a human shape, you thrummed life back into these fingertips every time you healed, i lived. you mould my lips into the shape of your name: a new devotion (deviation) from a being who's only ever known mission.
you carved out my heart and called it your own, just like i selfishly called you mine.