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Hate myself btw

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*screaming sounds* (cutely)

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They’re gonna know I don’t wear skirts casually.

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Okay so we can all agree that, like, it’s kinda crazy that Odysseus comes and beats Poseidon up with the power of friendship and everything.

I’ve seen it said that,

The 1/4 of a god that Ody has was awoken when he almost died.

Ares was on his side because of Athena and helped Ody to beat the crap out of Poseidon.

Hermes put moly in the bag so he could be on par with a god

The bag had sea daddy’s power itself in it so he had godly power on his side.

Hades lent his hand and let the spirits of his crew come back to spite his brothers

Etc.

But to be fair, Poseidon had just used his “god move” and centralized all his power to kill Odysseus (which totally should’ve killed him but the plot armor is strong with this one) so Poseidon was probably feeling pretty worn out at that point, coupled with the fact that he’s better at long range combat (I think I saw that somewhere please tell me if I’m making that up) as compared to Odysseus.

All this to say, it’s not unreasonable to imagine Poseidon being incredibly weakened not just after the energy used in his big strike, but after Ody used the windbag to move at godly speeds to further enhance his fighting prowess and wear Poseidon out to the point of just lying there.

To him, yes he’s out of energy but he knows, one, Odysseus can’t kill him so why keep pushing himself further, and two, the storm will do the job for him and stop Odysseus from going home anyways and so he uses that fact to taunt Ody instead of fighting him more physically. Poseidon just doesn’t realize how far he’s pushed Odysseus physically, mentally, or emotionally to even factor in that he’d torture him.

Either way something about it is just the tiniest bit unsatisfying, but I can’t deny that this saga has been and will continue to be on repeat in my house.

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“Next to my wife”

I fear he ate with that one

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So, the Vengeance Saga, huh. It was pretty FREAKING INSANE or whatever you wanna call it.

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One time you laughed at something I said when it wasn’t that funny. Would you laugh again if I asked you to keep doing that?

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If only, if only, if only

I say

But I’m already tired

From running away

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I can touch my father’s hands in the middle of a church service and hold the hand of my mother as she drives with a splitting headache. I can hold their fingers steady as I paint my sisters’ nails, but no more than that or I think we’d combust. I don’t think that I’ve touched the hand of a brother in years, if I’m frank. My hands still get sweaty holding hands with a friend, conscious of every cell that’s touching. But I’d like to think, that someday when I meet you, I’d hold yours as if it were mine and my brain will turn off its alarms.

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Then the girl next to me asked what happened to my forehead

and I told her that I picked at it until it bled because my pores were clogged and I could feel it every time I brushed a hair away and touched my face and now

I could feel it

So now she could see it

And my stomach churned because she was asking so innocently and she turned away and her skin glowed in the fluorescent light and I wondered what it would be like to look in the mirror and not want to try to fix it even though I know it’s impossible because my fingers have knives and shovels at the end and my skin is a graveyard riddled with stones and my brain is in league with those boys who dug up bodies just so they could study medicine and they whisper in my head what they whisper into theirs and

if I can cut into skin and feel a rush, then maybe it doesn’t matter if it’s someone’s daughter

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Then I’m lying again

In my bed

In my underwear

Trying to feel something on my skin

A breeze or a goosebump

A heartbeat or a poem