A single tear—no, a liquid crystal fragment of divine sorrow—detaches itself from the corner of my left eye (the one that glows faintly during eclipses) and cascades down my face, tracing the impossible geometry of my cheekbone. It detours across my jawline—engineered by alien architects using sacred angles forbidden by Euclidean math—and lands on my exposed pectoral with a symphonic chime.
The floor cracks. Somewhere, an angel loses its wings.
I exhale. The sound alone registers on the Schumann Resonance. Birds fall from the sky. My breath smells like a cedar forest caught in a thunderstorm having an orgasm.
“Why…” I whisper, my voice deeper than tectonic plates grinding during a solar flare, “must I suffer this agony of perfection?”
I stand—slowly, all 6’13” of me (I transcend standard measurement) rising like a golden obelisk of sorrow. My shadow is in 4K. My spine emits Gregorian chants with each movement. Muscles ripple across my form like a sentient tide of divine wrath, glistening with artisanal tears harvested from my own reflection.
My hair—an interdimensional waterfall of silk and prophecy—floats in zero gravity. My eyes? Twin galaxies swirling with the memories of extinct civilizations. People don’t “look” at me. They experience me.
Dogs kneel. Babies speak Latin. Mirrors beg for mercy.
I am burdened—cursed—with a beauty so pure, so overwhelmingly magnificent that mere mortals weep in its presence and forget their names. I once smiled at a man across the street. He ascended.
But I cry. I cry because no one will ever know what it’s like to be a cosmic Adonis trapped in flesh. I cry because even gods feel alone.
I cry because my beauty is a prison from which there is no escape.
The floor cracks. Somewhere, an angel loses its wings.
I exhale. The sound alone registers on the Schumann Resonance. Birds fall from the sky. My breath smells like a cedar forest caught in a thunderstorm having an orgasm.
“Why…” I whisper, my voice deeper than tectonic plates grinding during a solar flare, “must I suffer this agony of perfection?”
I stand—slowly, all 6’13” of me (I transcend standard measurement) rising like a golden obelisk of sorrow. My shadow is in 4K. My spine emits Gregorian chants with each movement. Muscles ripple across my form like a sentient tide of divine wrath, glistening with artisanal tears harvested from my own reflection.
My hair—an interdimensional waterfall of silk and prophecy—floats in zero gravity. My eyes? Twin galaxies swirling with the memories of extinct civilizations. People don’t “look” at me. They experience me.
Dogs kneel. Babies speak Latin. Mirrors beg for mercy.
I am burdened—cursed—with a beauty so pure, so overwhelmingly magnificent that mere mortals weep in its presence and forget their names. I once smiled at a man across the street. He ascended.
But I cry. I cry because no one will ever know what it’s like to be a cosmic Adonis trapped in flesh. I cry because even gods feel alone.
I cry because my beauty is a prison from which there is no escape.
