My whole world,
my precious Pluto —
they would take away your name,
take you away from me.
I will be their Persephone again —
oh,
no,
not the daughter of the fields,
but the Wife of a cold hell,
rising with bones and blossoms
to wreath the pigs for slaughter
and enchant all their children
to forever sleep.
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About Catastrophe Jones
Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
