Impasse


Dear Mr. Riordan,
As son of Hades,
I take my gruesome dinners with the god
of death. Yet you, I am sure,
set your table with the blood
of those I have loved most.
Years have I spent with
your presence tingling at the back of my neck,
your voice, your commands ever present.
My life has been built up
solely to fit your design,
solely for you
to tear it all back down.

Dear Mr. Riordan,
will you ever find satisfaction
in my anguish? I have been
through Hell and back because
you said it was needed of me.
I have lied and fought
and starved and won and lost
and did it all
because you hold them
just as you hold me.

Dear Mr. Riordan,
you play me with the fingers
of Apollo, pinching and plucking
until I sing to your tune.
Every love I've ever had
has been snatched away, replaced
by one I can never obtain.
You, in your Athenian wisdom,
know that this is the best way
to control me.

Dear Mr. Riordan,
I am your plot device
and nothing more.
Without you, I wouldn't exist.
Without me, you wouldn't have
a touching subplot.

It seems, Mr. Riordan,
that we've reached an impasse.