watch as I turn into God, watch as She turns into Me
His smile is almost-shy, and I think I am making him nervous but the lioness inside my bones won’t let me rest, and I cannot decide how to care. Am I already forgetting what it is, to not be something wild and unnatural? How easy it is to fall back into old habits. How easy it is to go back to the things I once knew.
I do not know the story he tells, of an island that fell from the sky, of a battle of gods. But a girl, a girl whose father called them the fruit of angels. It is almost too much of a coincidence, almost too much to overlook. Her Chara, her Rezar.
Who am I to say it is not a different daughter, a different father.
Who am I to say that I only tell myself this to make myself feel better. To only allow myself the relief of not having to think of more of what I have lost. (So much, so much).
Because of that, I’m not sure that I can tell him. Because of that, I think I must keep them close to my heart. He is just a boy, just a boy who can’t have ever possibly known my daughter, and that, maybe, makes it hurt more than it otherwise would. What would I have done, if he had?
The vendor barks something at us about “buy or move” and I turn back to him with ghosts gnawing on my bones and darkness leaking from me like ichor, or magic. I grasp a few of the papayas and bag them, and a single pomegranate, and pay the man from a purse tucked safely beneath my axe.
My edges are less like glass and more like stone when I push the back of gold and green skinned fruits at the young man. Not quite as sharp, not quite as cutting. Still hard, solid, rough. Echoing. “You should try them, if you haven’t yet,” I tell him. I say little else, as I move away from the stand, out of the way of the others trying to buy.
I am not hungry, but I am gripping the pomegranate for dear life. It’s outer shell is hard and unyielding to my hand, as I press it closely to my chest. Like I am trying to push it inside me. Like I am trying to replace my heart. Like it will mean something more.
I think that he is following me, but I do not stop until I reach the nearby gardens, and all their life like a deep sleep. I pass beneath a sprawling rose covered arch, and it is too quiet. I am buzzing, and roaring, and aching inside. “Who are you?” I ask him again, without turning.
“Speaking.”
I do not know the story he tells, of an island that fell from the sky, of a battle of gods. But a girl, a girl whose father called them the fruit of angels. It is almost too much of a coincidence, almost too much to overlook. Her Chara, her Rezar.
Who am I to say it is not a different daughter, a different father.
Who am I to say that I only tell myself this to make myself feel better. To only allow myself the relief of not having to think of more of what I have lost. (So much, so much).
Because of that, I’m not sure that I can tell him. Because of that, I think I must keep them close to my heart. He is just a boy, just a boy who can’t have ever possibly known my daughter, and that, maybe, makes it hurt more than it otherwise would. What would I have done, if he had?
The vendor barks something at us about “buy or move” and I turn back to him with ghosts gnawing on my bones and darkness leaking from me like ichor, or magic. I grasp a few of the papayas and bag them, and a single pomegranate, and pay the man from a purse tucked safely beneath my axe.
My edges are less like glass and more like stone when I push the back of gold and green skinned fruits at the young man. Not quite as sharp, not quite as cutting. Still hard, solid, rough. Echoing. “You should try them, if you haven’t yet,” I tell him. I say little else, as I move away from the stand, out of the way of the others trying to buy.
I am not hungry, but I am gripping the pomegranate for dear life. It’s outer shell is hard and unyielding to my hand, as I press it closely to my chest. Like I am trying to push it inside me. Like I am trying to replace my heart. Like it will mean something more.
I think that he is following me, but I do not stop until I reach the nearby gardens, and all their life like a deep sleep. I pass beneath a sprawling rose covered arch, and it is too quiet. I am buzzing, and roaring, and aching inside. “Who are you?” I ask him again, without turning.
![[Image: 13716916_Rc8f5hGvZkB3cYP.png]](https://file.toyhou.se/images/13716916_Rc8f5hGvZkB3cYP.png)
a war is calling
the tides are turned
the tides are turned
