When her father gifted her with a sealed pithos,
Her husband knew better,
And warned her against opening it.

Time and time again,
She would be overcome with curiosity,
And would be tempted to see its contents.

Later,
After she could stand it no longer,
In a moment of weakness,
She opened it.

Out came sickness, misery, hardship and poverty,
Set free to run rampant among mankind,
For all eternity.

Stunned and shocked,
She hurriedly closed the pithos,
Trapping none other than hope inside.

She learnt her lesson the hard way -
Curiosity killed the cat.

it is just a gift
that keeps on giving
my personalised pithos of
things wrapped up in tears
reopening stories I had put away
discovering new chapters
combining short stories into weighted tomes
pressing down my heart
with unexpected plot twists and feedback loops
that keep crashing around in my head
oppressing my wins with blinding migraines
because I tried too hard and reached too high
did too much
it is just a gift
that keeps on giving
my personalised, Pandora’s pithos of ...(fill in your preferred ending)

@journeyofdays

Zeus handed Pandora 'pithos'.
She let her curiosity rise.
So out came

illnesses, hardships and cries,
while Pandora trapped
Hope inside.

But the myth is not quite right
When she opened the box,
I believe,

out came I.

The most evil spirit of all,
the burden on this world.
Maybe someday I can

climb back into the box,
and finally let Hope
come outside.

__
              /              \
            /  Locked tight  \
        /  upon the earth, \
        |    a lid sealed firm, |
        |  to hide the birth of  |
        |  what we seek and fear, |
        |  all buried deep, too  |
        |  close, too near.        |
        | Curiosity breaks the seal,|
        | whispers rise, dark truths |
        | revealed, shadows crawl, |
        \ through the crack, /
          \  they escape them all.  /
          | From every grief, to    |
          | every pain, out they    |
          | surge like heavy rain.  |
          | Yet, deep within, there |
          | lies a glow, the last  |
          | of things we may not    |
          | know. When all seems    |
            \ lost, so faint, so slight,/
              \ Hope, a flicker, a    /
                \  final light.    /

I am a woman– forced to say it like a curse
Because the moment we are discovered
Evil eyes of all sorts gaze upon us,
Questioning and curious.
        “Is her skin like porcelain?”
They refer to us as pithos, jars
Containers of the worst combinations
Of what Pandora released
Transporters of life and miasma
The toxic pollutant that comes
With giving and taking life.
        “Her virtue above all else– is she pure?”
We are *parthenos, with our coveted virginity
But once we are women we are spoiled
Once a jar has been opened and shattered
It can never become pristine and new again
Only lay in wait to crumble and expire.
        “Her hair, is it soft like satin?”
They who clamber out from our wombs,
Refer to us as stains of shame and burden
They call us impure and unclean when we bleed
A pollutant when we birth new life
Yet they are praised when they forsake ours.
        “Do her eyes shine like gems?”
We are like treasure, like silk and gold
When we are not yet broken, we are something desired
They say we are like pearls and gems; silk and gold
But these comparisons are not compliments– they are currencies
The closest they can get to shelving us, marketed to be sold
        “Is she beautiful?”
Be lovely like Aphrodite with unparalleled beauty
Be chaste as Athena and Artemis, a monarch like Hestia and Hera
Be obedient or become like Pandora and bring us to ruin
We are told to be and not be pieces of so many others,
That we can’t remember how to simply be ourselves.
        “Become unbreakable.”

.

Theseus, bright lad, thought he’d be slick—
He handed his dad a jar, said, “Pick
One wish, one hope, or maybe two!”
His dad just sighed, “What’s wrong with you?”

“Pandora’s pithos! Great for Dad’s shelf,
A jar of curses... or good luck itself!
But here’s the real gift, I swear it’s true—
White sails, Dad, when I’m coming to you!”

Off Theseus went, proud as a goat,
Without a thought, a plan, or note.
Sails? Who’d remember that part of the deal?
He returned in black like it wasn’t a big deal.

Old Aegeus squinted, peered out to sea—
“What’s that son of mine doing to me?!”
Saw those black sails and the jar in hand,
And took a dive, just like he’d planned.

So now we call it the Aegean Sea,
Thanks to one kid’s gift and faulty memory.
And Theseus? He shrugged, gave a clueless stare—
“That pithos gift? Yeah, it’s heirloom fare."