I am the gods’ forgotten potion, poured too soon and left to ferment into tragedy. Instead of being blessed to receive love, I was cursed to give it, endlessly and absurdly, as if devotion were some divine party trick Olympus wanted on repeat. Mortals drink, they drop, they destroy. The gods call it poetic, I call it predictable. Reverence is fleeting, ruin is reliable, and I remain their favorite cosmic joke, the apotheosis of love’s cruel paradox: to give without measure and to be abandoned without end.