Ugly Aphrodite

If only the cynic was less loved; maybe their death wouldn't be so heavy with bittersweet emotion. Banishment is cold, but the hands of death are damn near frozen, icing the body as if it were to be stored away in a cryogenic fridge for the rest of the century. As populations declined and money became nothing but paper, sex nothing but routine, and love nothing but necessity, Aphrodite grew ugly, shriveled, and worn like a red scarf with greened plaid on a summer day. Her allowance towards fleshly desires was one that no longer seemed to exist in the eyes of mere mortals, who once worked their way into her secret chambers, created calamity outside as she gladly threw open the doors. No, she was no longer needed, wanted, desired by those who for so long had craved her being. To be ugly, rancid, and dripping with desperation was her new disposition, the only way she now knew how to survive. Her body, aging and lame turned to the dirt of the earth as a temporary escape. Of course her immortal existence could not seize, but her conscious could get close enough to it.