cypress girls


tell us your side of the story. the blood the guts the gore. the color of rust just beneath your fingernails, your hands washed raw. what hit the ground? what sound did it make? cradling pale blue pieces to a robin’s egg at the bottom of a cypress, the girl you tried to love, above you twirling her hair reminding you how to make an omelette. the fall from grace, the fall out, a shouting match, a clenched fist goodbye, tell them why you lied. was the door busted open like a jaw? or slammed impossibly shut the day the pictures fell off the wall? watch them spin & flit all over, landing in the gutter, landing in the mud, over the fence, knocked out of the park. running into the yard to save the memories she can’t stand looking at anymore. trying to talk over the rain, holding a warped & contorted something saying “i remember this day, we were happy” she can’t hear you. it’s raining too hard. you repeat yourself but she misheard you, thinking you said “i remember when we were happy.” you watch her mouth the words “me too.” before evaporating into the dim lit doorway you ran from. they say the feeling of falling is felt in the ears. sorry to hear that. someone says falling in love is like drowning and suddenly your feet can’t touch the bottom. suddenly it’s hailing in your house. you reach down to hold one. a cloudy white sphere wet to the touch. a pearl melting in your hand. weird in which the way it forms. like hate. the ice starts around a single impurity and is carried in the clouds until it can’t fight the fall. to punch out windshields, to kill your dog. you reach down again and pick up a robin’s egg from among the hailstones. i’m sorry i do this every time. tell me what you think about when you think about falling. in or out of consciousness, a wind chime off the porch. a bean bag hitting the target next to the dunk tank. jerked awake from the dream, or trying to wake from it but can’t, someone shaking you in bed saying “you fell but it’s okay, you’re okay” even though neither of you could be sure. i remember the day you told me if the world turned out to be flat that you hoped i’d fall off of it. i know. i know. falling isn’t always bridges & buildings and making ripples in the water. you want to say “what about breath? the way chests rise and fall on hotel mattresses, the way hands fall perfectly into one another. falling asleep barely touching or locked together.” you forgot about change. falling between the cushions lost forever or a sudden drop in temperature, the other word for autumn. the day in september josh tripped and fell on a shotgun. falling on deaf ears or asleep behind the wheel. the way you tell everyone you held my head above the water. i don’t remember your hands as big as gods or quite as gripping. always cold and searching for the pearl concealed in my body. if you find anything worth having inside me you can have it. to call your own, to wear around your neck. the dream you keep having where you fall from something tall. sometimes i catch you, sometimes you’re frozen, suspended in the air like hail just beneath me, your face terrified because i reached to grab you and missed. sometimes i refuse to give you my hands and you drop without a sound. sometimes i’m at the very bottom, cradling your broken body like a robin’s egg. the nest falling too, your head full of bees. your head full of misremembered yesterday’s sick with the feeling. you say you loved me. i say you didn’t. you just look at me like i’m someone you did. the calendar falling on the wrong day always the wrong day, the care left somewhere on a leap year, i can hear it now, “a sensation like dropping right through the bottom, like someone, god perhaps, dropped your body in an alley and never looked back.” everything down here is covered in ugly. like it snapped every branch on the way down. the story goes something like “the first time i saw her something fell, and i’m not sure if it was me. or the first time something fell i saw her.” suddenly the sound of an upset sky and you hurry to the door. outside you see your dog slumped in the mud surrounded by pearls. i’m sorry about that too. when i see the hands of god, when they reach right out of heaven to smite or to place a “you are here” thumbtack against the map of silence, it all falls into frame. it’s like providence. the day you fell in the forest and ever since you’ve been asking people if they heard it.

sequencefairy  asked:

Ro and I briefly chatted about this the other night, but I submit to you: Ichiruki as hades/persephone, but gender-bent. Rukia as the goddess of death, Ichigo as hapless demi-god who eats pomegranate seeds and falls in love.

Y’all gotta seriously stop, because I don’t have time for this

Also: sorry if you guys actually had, like, a whole AU plotted out for this already bc I kinda took this and ran with it

Title: Of Pomegranate Seeds and Counting Spring

Fandom: Bleach

Pairings: Ichiruki

Rating: Teen

Warnings: None

Summary: All the myths have it wrong. There was never a God of Death or a kidnapped, helpless Goddess of Spring. There was simply a very lonely woman who thought that everything good she touched turned to ash beneath her fingers, and a very lonely man determined to show her that was not the case.

There was simply Ichigo and Rukia.

“They didn’t tell me the God of Death was a four-foot girl.

“Four foot eight inches,” the girl corrects automatically, before curling around her staff in a wisp of smoking darkness to lean over the golden youth. “They didn’t tell me the precious daughter of the exuberant God of Harvest was an angry, surly boy.”

“Daughters,” the boy corrects, scowl deepening. “You’re thinking of my twin sisters. I’m Goat-Chin’s eldest son, but he doesn’t like to mention it. Ruins his image as bountiful bringer of the grain, flanked by two pretty girls as the Goddesses of Spring and Rebirth.”

The girl quirks an eyebrow at him. “You refer to the esteemed God of Harvest as Goat-Chin?

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