Perfect
Love is supposed to fix things.
It makes things beautiful—
Like him.
I make messes,
Destroy things,
Hurt people.
Scheme.
Manipulate.
I don't even have good intentions
The mortals he loves so well are my playthings
To do with them what I will.
There is no guile in him.
No arrogance.
No caprice.
He cannot comprehend the games I hide behind.
He is repulsed by my darkness.
But still, I can sense his fascination.
He says that he loathes me.
I pretend to despise him.
We are eerily alike in our false disdain,
Our immortal, eternal stupidity.
We are a twisted, ironic sort of perfect
Like him.
A/N If you liked this —review please— check out Collision, my first piece, which is about Artemis and Apollo. Also, I thought I should explain that this is set before the birth of Aphrodite.