I had barely bloomed when he brought me to the underworld.

The darkest corners of my room keep me awake,
Vivid memories of Hades’ calloused hands haunt me.
There are nights where I clutch my stomach,
Nails digging into brown skin that housed the scion of a monster.

But I could never bring myself to hate you, my petal.

There are mornings in my mother’s garden,
Her grip comfortably tight around my hands,
A reminder that I am safe and home—
That you are not him, but the seed of my little spring.

I can’t wait to watch you play in mother’s poppy field.

I will tell you our story, one day.
Of how your grandma—my mother—brought eternal winter
and turned the entire world over just to have me in her arms again,
Now I know that I’m ready to do the same for you.

I would burn down Olympus if it meant it’ll provide my child some warmth.

- Beatrice Diane D. Bartolome

(Illustration by Margarita Rivera/FEU Advocate)