Oh Aphrodite, goddess of love and beauty; place your gentle hand upon me. Make that person I desire love me until their bones cannot bear to be away from me. Some say. Great Aphrodite, kiss my cheek; make my face as beautiful as yours. Others say.

Everyone wants a piece of Aphrodite, and she knows it; she is the reddest apple on the apple tree. Everyone wants her to lay her velvet fingers on them, to bring back to life in their dull hearts the purest, yet most corrupt, feeling of all: love. Aphrodite is sure; if people could, they would tear off her skin to wear it themselves.

They just want to use her. They want to devour her as if she didn't have fragile feelings inside her wounded chest. If she could, the goddess of love would rip human's hearts out with her own hands and devour them right before their eyes. She's tired. Tired and hurt.

Olympus has laughed at her and Ares, who was her lover before Hephaestus discovered them. And now, rejected by her peers, the object of ridicule, Aphrodite wants only to forget her own mistakes. She wants to forget that her heart is more hurt than she thought; and she wants to forget that she's starting to hate her own love.

Hidden away in her temple, trying to make the gods forget what happened, Aphrodite finds herself indulging the mundane and horrendous desires of humans. She tries to listen to their desires, but the words ring hollow to Aphrodite.

But then, you enter her temple. A fragile, pretty human; you even seem soft. With a smile on your face that indicates your heart beats with pure love. A love that Aphrodite believes extinct.

"How beautiful you are." She murmurs not looking at your face, but at your heart. "Tell me, human." The goddess's hand rests on your chest. "What is it that you desire?"

When was the last time Aphrodite met someone with a love as innocent and pure as yours? Looking into your heart is like lying on a cloud and being caressed by the feathers of a swan.

How easy it would be to trick you into loving her, and making her feel your love.