Galatea Speaks

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

A reimagining of the Greek story of Pygmalion, a sculptor who falls in love with his sculpture, which is then brought to life by the goddess Aphrodite. In this version, Pygmalion is a female artist, and the statue, named Galatea, reflects in her own mind about how much she wants to be brought to life, because just as Pygmalion loves her, she too loves her creator.

You have chiseled me from the finest marble, etched my delicate smile into my face, oddly radiant underneath the haze of sun so brilliantly burning off the horizon of Cyprus. Each fingertip so lovingly caressed by the sharpened tools of a craftsman, and how I wish by Aphrodite’s grace that she grant me the sensation of touch, to know warmth where your palm rests flush against my abdomen, to feel a real, human heart flutter inside me when you press the most tender of kisses to my neck, just where my stone-stiff hair comes to rest against the broad porcelain of my shoulders, to allow you to feel the sacred, baptismal wetness that flows distinctly from woman when she prepares to take her lover inside, to encase them in all of her universal glory and allow them entrance to a temple where miracles can be performed. 

 

You are a mother to me, birthed me and formed me from where there was once nothing, like when Zeus takes clay in his hands and breathes into it the gift of life. Twistedly, you whisper into my ears that you should also desire to be my lover, take me to your bed and show me things most tender, most wondrous; you should want upon all want to kiss against my skin, not marble but flesh that sweats and bristles with apprehension and lust all at once when lips brush so lovely past it, flesh that will one day rot, lifeless once more in your arms; ashes to ashes, dust to dust, stone muscles back to stone when I grow stiff as a fainting goat spooked by the carrion hawks. 

 

I have heard you mumble to yourself, Medusa has entrapped a living woman within this stone, I know it. I am more excavator than artist. My love for her is not unfounded, and I want to give you a flutter of my lashes to let you know that this is the truth. I want to grant a press of my palm flush to your cheek, I want to recite the verses of Sappho you read out loud in the breaks between working on me. I want to tell you how, if marble could melt, I should be a puddle on your workstation floor, given the look of your eyes in the candlelight by which you read your romantic poetry, and the soft sounds you make when you set your book down and your hand in all its tantalizingly serpentine gestures reaches beneath your skirts, touches places I can only dream to see. 

I imagine the taste of you, wonder how much louder the moans, how much more frantic the girations of your feminine curves, would all become if I were the one to touch you. I know how much you fantasize, the way you stare at me from across the room while you allow your own wetness to string across your fingers, spiderwebs of what is akin to ambrosia, of which I would not waste a single drop if I were permitted to suckle on those fingertips. I would speak praises for which the deities would smite me, for you are my goddess, and if I am to be a blasphemer, than I welcome the hellfire if only for one more breathless kiss upon your lips, like lush rose petals. 

Tonight, as you sleep and dream of me, I know we are both praying for Aphrodite’s intervention. May she grant me all of these gifts, may she grant love for the sake of love, or may the River Styx be full of my eternally unshed tears. 


Submitted: August 21, 2019

© Copyright 2022 crystalline. All rights reserved.

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