The world is an archery range and Artemis' throat is a target practice.
What is this pale and moon-drenched skin but a carcass to howling wolves — their sorrows grow hand and grab her by the neck.
I always told myself to lie still throughout the attack — it'll be over before you know it, but my lips are wounded from biting down a scream and a carcass still weeps long after it's dead and my lung still bleeds long after it's dry — lie still, my love, because what if the calm trembles in a storm and what if the storm brews in the calm. Lie still, I say but my legs weren't made to be a hunted prey's. Lie still, I say but my hands weren't meant to carry the moon and all the sadness she was ever told.
Lie still. No, it's not only Atlas who breaks. The world still is an archery range.
And tonight, Artemis takes her last arrow; perch her carcass on the grieving moon — a carcass, regardless, to all howling wolves.