#while writing this i was imagining that scene from parasite where the mother is sleeping on a table outside lol

[seoafin]

I know they're losing and I'll pay for my place

ii.

geto suguru x reader

warnings: gruesome death

This temple has a garden.

A nice walking garden that is well maintained by the members of the Star Religious Group. Flowers of every imaginable variety compliment the stone walking path, along with immaculately trimmed bushes and bonsai trees.

You pluck out some flowers, a pink one for Nanako, a dark purple one for Mimiko, and freeze them.

Under your touch they are immortal, forever in bloom. Preserved for life. You place the flowers in their room to give them a nice surprise later. You remember when they were younger and awed by your cursed technique-turned-party-trick.

But now, there’s no more need to fight, to put your life on the line for the monkeys anymore.

Suguru's happier lately. You attribute it to the new Grade 1 curse he's managed to capture. A curse he's had his eye on for a while now. A grotesque thing shaped like a spider with three heads and even more eyes. Its large spindly legs could easily pin a person down and crush their head.

You have, luckily, never seen this in action. Discovered on Mount Mitake eating hikers that strayed too far from the path, it had been too close to the College to risk, but Satoru had been out of the country that month. Overseas.

Nanako tells you that it's because he's pleased to finally see you out of your room. That Geto-sama told the monkeys to plant the flowers just for you!

"See?" She pressed the head of the flower into your hands, the delicate floral scent wafting into your nose as wilting petals stained your palm. Behind her Mimiko was eagerly nodding. "It's your favorite!

An amaryllis flower. The same flower you had decorated Shoko’s room with years ago.

So you sit. And read outside for a change, sitting at the small table reserved for you tucked away in a secluded corner of the garden, provided shade by the sakura blossoms and a large oak tree. Mimiko and Nanako join you and sit across from you. You help them with schoolwork even though Nanako grumbles about learning history (Monkey history? What's that got to do with me? When Geto-sama kills them all, there won't be any need!)

They don't really hate non jujutsu sorcerers. The both of them. But they will follow Suguru to the end just as you will. You can't fault them, even though you want better for them.

Both girls are quick learners when they want to be, finishing their problems, handing them in, and running off after a shared look. They think you don't know about their excursions to the city, but you know. And so does Suguru.

Sometimes you see cultists strolling by or raking the leaves. They avert their gazes immediately or look past you like a ghost before swiftly turning away. You feel invisible, like you once did in a room of clapping cultists, hearing Satoru propose slaughter while your throat had been thick with grief and despair. You don’t like the feeling.

Suguru brings the investors into the garden on occasions. More for a change of scenery than a need to impress. If he gets too bored he might kill them before they finish their pitches, and that would be a problem.

The wind softly brushes your face. The sound of leaves dancing and grass rustling reach your ears, lulling you to sleep, and your eyelids are drooping close. You haven’t been sleeping lately. Suguru’s worried.

You rest your head down on your arms, and watch through slitted eyes as a leaf lazily falls into the koi pond a couple of meters away from you.

You fall asleep easily.

—

A ruckus wakes you up.

"Do you know who I am!?" A voice bellows, indignation in every syllable, and you blink awake, raising your head just as a man storms over. He's stout, balding, and red-faced as he looks you over scornfully, plump face contorted in displeasure. Wrapped around his neck, however, is a thin, wrinkly, curse that looks as if it's painfully restricting his airway. You recognize it as one of Suguru's curses.

You look at the man in front of you and then the cultists to the side. There's two of them, a man and a woman. The man looks unsure of whether or not to intervene, while the woman clutches a rake, terrified. Their gazes ping pong between you and the man.

"Where is he!?" The man snaps impatiently, drawing your attention back to him. Stubby fingers furiously scratch at the entity invisible to his eyes, trying with no avail to loosen the pressure. He looks about to burst, face comically blowing up.

Cursed energy flows to your pointed hand as you raise it, but then you catch yourself. You lower your hand, still enveloped in cursed energy, and say, "Suguru?"

You don't know where he is right now. Maybe in the main temple with the others. The man's wearing an expensive black suit, sleek and pressed, tailored to fit his short stature. An investor. He looks desperate, and you feel something stir inside of you.

His face flushes redder at the confirmation. "Geto," he spits, "that bastard! He promised me that he'd exorcise the curse on me! Do you know much money I've given you lot!?"

Before you can respond, his eyes narrow. "You're one of them, aren't you?"

"I—"

"Get rid of it!" He demands loudly, hands gesturing to his exposed neck.

You could do it. You could help. Suguru would forgive you. He would also attach another curse to the man by the end of the day, but the momentary respite—

The man's hand shoots out, and you let him grab your arm and tug you forward. He's stronger than he looks, because you almost topple from your chair.

Protests explode from the cultists, the woman in particular. "Please Sir! She's—"

"Didn't you hear me!?" Spittle flies from his mouth, outraged at your blank face and silence. His fingers dig into your skin. "I sai—"

A spray of blood hits your face.

Wet and crimson, some of it runs down your chin as the man is torn apart by Suguru's blood sucking curses. Grade 2. Tiny but deadly. They feast on his face and move onto his body, ripping skin away and exposing bone in the process. The man barely has time to comprehend his own gruesome death. There's a choked gurgle; maybe a scream caught in his throat. More blood. In a few seconds he is reduced to nothing but torn chunks of flesh and blood, and the mutilated corpse falls into a pool of blood.

You stare.

"What a mess," Suguru sighs out, surveying the scene, face sour. "It's everywhere."

Your eyes are latched to the bloody lump in front of you, completely unrecognizable from the breathing human that had been a few seconds ago.

The sounds in your ear intensify; the winged curses chittering over the blood, the water rushing from the stream of the garden, the occasional water bubbles from the koi pond, the rustling of the leaves above you, as something pricks at your chest.

You've seen worse. You're not horrified or surprised or disgusted. Yet the sight gives you pause. Especially when the curse that had previously been curled around the man's neck slithers away, leaving behind a trail of blood.

Hands softly cup and tilt your face upwards. Suguru fills your vision, his eyes scanning your face as if for any visible signs of injury or distress. Your face is a blank slate, and his lips form a frown.

"He touched you," he says tightly, looking both displeased and concerned. Blood slides down your face and onto your lap. The taste of copper is sharp in your mouth, and you're not sure if the blood is yours or the man's.

Something soft wipes off the blood on your face. A handkerchief. You wonder where that came from. You think there's an apology in his gaze, in the way he carefully wipes the blood off your brow, cheek, nose with the gentleness of a feather, getting the man's blood—a monkey's blood—all over his hands. But you're not sure. Maybe you're imagining it.

"Are you alright?"

The concern in his voice is real though. You take the handkerchief from him and into your hand. The smeared blood that couldn't be cleaned away is rapidly cooling on your face, and you think if you went to the bathroom and looked at yourself in the mirror you'd burst into laughter at how you look straight out of a low budget horror film.

Suguru's eyes briefly drop from yours to the red staining his hands. They flex, and you know how revolted he must be to have monkey's blood on his hands. You wonder if he's refraining from any derogatory comments in your presence, and you want to tell him that he shouldn't bother. That while you don’t understand, you don’t want him to have to hide anything from you.

You realize you haven't answered his question until he murmurs your name, knuckles brushing your face. You lean into the contact and nearly close your eyes. His gaze turns fond.

"I'm fine," you say, but it sounds dull to your ears. You look past Suguru, and see the cultists bowing or cowering, foreheads pressed to the ground. Then: "Are you?"

He raises an eyebrow, pleasantly amused at your question. If you focus on his face and his face only, he looks charming, and you don't know why you fixate on that particular detail, but it makes you happy in a way few things do anymore.

"Nothing that can't be washed away," he replies and you detect the slight strain that infuses his words. The disgust inches back onto his face when his eyes find the corpse in front of you.

"I'll walk you back," he finally says, dragging his gaze back to you.

You blink. "Don't you have..." It takes you a few seconds to recall the words. "That meeting. Today."

He looks surprised. "The meeting can wait."

"I'm fine." You stand on unsteady limbs, and Suguru reaches out to steady you, a reassuring hand on your back and the other wrapped around your arm.

"You don't look fine," he says worriedly, and he looks ready to shuffle you away, despite your protests.

"I'm fine," you reaffirm, because it seems to be the only words you know, but he doesn't look convinced.

He reluctantly lets you go.

You trudge back to your room on autopilot, feeling heavier with every step, and ignore the way Suguru's newest family member, a blonde woman with a camera hanging from her neck, does a double take as you pass.

You shut the door and don't leave.

[rons-hermiones]

Come Find Me

Come Find Me

by rons-hermiones

Summary: Unplanned, Hermione is forced to spend Christmas at the Burrow due to her grandmother falling very ill. After being ignored by Hermione for weeks, Ron is determined to show her how much she means to him. Just before he gets the chance to tell her, Bellatrix Lestrange shows up with other plans for Hermione. Can Ron get to her before it's too late? (Ron/Hermione Half-Blood Prince AU)

Rating: M for language & dark themes in later chapters.

Chapter Twenty Two

Ron hadn’t said a word all morning. He’s of course been quiet since everything went down just what, two weeks ago? 

The person he has the least trouble talking to is Harry. His whole family and The Order are right devastated, but no one gets how he feels quite like Harry does. 

Her parents were an entirely different story. 

That day when they left Hampstead Hermione’s parents had showered the three boys with tender embraces and promises that things would be alright. But that shouldn’t be the case. 

Not when Ron was responsible for this whole thing. Not when he spent more of his time at the Granger residence locked away in Hermione’s room, explaining to her father all the times he’s been a right tit to her over a game of chess. 

He should’ve been the one giving the reassurances that he would get their daughter back, not the other way around. 

That was only two days ago. 

Now he stands on the chaos that is Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, still having not spoken a peep to anyone. Not even when Harry told him he’d been screaming for Hermione again in his sleep last night. 

However, time was running down as the Hogwarts Express rolled up and opened its doors. 

His Mum was tearful, more so than usual, probably with the notion of sending three of her mourning children off to school. 

That’s right, three. Ginny, Ron, and Harry. 

“Come here sweet girl, promise me you’ll write darling.” Molly cried into Ginny’s shoulder, the girl stifling a nod through sniffles. 

Soon, Mrs.Weasley pulled away to embrace Harry tightly, her sobs only becoming louder, causing a slight scene. 

Arthur noticed and gently patted her back as he turned to Ron, “I know you can do this son.” He said in a whisper. 

After a moment he spoke, “I don’t know if I can Dad.” This man right here is his hero. He couldn’t help but be honest with him. 

He dropped his hand from his wife’s shoulder and switched it atop Ron’s. “I know you can do this Ron, I know you’ll be strong. For Hermione.” He told his boy, who somehow has grown into a man.  

Knowing his fathers words to be true, the youngest Weasley brother managed a nod as he grasped at his Dad’s shoulders. 

“Someone will be sent there within the week, yeah? Make sure everything’s alright down in Hampstead.” 

“I promise Ronnie. I’ll see to it myself. Someone from The Order will check the wards and debrief the Granger’s.” Arthur swore. 

As they departed a few days ago, Bill had promised Hugo and Jean someone within the Order would be stopping by to properly debrief them and check the wards. Ron was determined to make sure this promise was kept. 

“Swear to me Dad that you’ll write if anything changes,” his father opens his mouth, “I know Mum thinks I’m too young and it’s too dangerous, but I’m going mental as is, I reckon it’ll only get worse at school. Please promise me you’ll tell me what’s being done if anything, anything at all changes. Please?” He begs. 

After a few moments, a little misty eyed, the man nods, “I promise son. I promise.” 

The conversation ends as Molly halts herself at her youngest son. Crying and whispering sweet nothings. Words of encouragement. The promise to bring Hermione home. 

“I promise Ronnie, she’ll come back. She’ll come home.” She cried softly. 

He rubs his mother’s back gently, “I’ll hold you to it Mum.” Ron responds, just as tenderly. 

At this Molly pulls away to gaze up at her son, who now towers over her. So proud of the man he’s become. At the things he’s able to face. 

And she tells him as much, “I’m so proud of you Ronnie. Please know it, I am. You’re so strong.” She fusses with his hair gently. 

Not willing to let himself cry here, he leans forward and places a soft kiss on his Mum’s cheek. Really caring less who saw. 

“I’ll write, okay?” 

“Okay.” She answers, stepping back into her husbands awaiting arms. 

A whistle sounds as more kids pile onto the train. 

“You guys need anything to help you out,” Fred winks, “you just owl us, we’ll send it in a tick.” 

“On the house.” George promises, clapping Ron on the back as he smiles at Harry. 

“Goodbye gits.” Ginny supplies with a watery smile. 

The pair of them just grin back, silently wishing the three of them luck. Letting them know to be strong through a simple expression. 

As they turn to board, Harry whispers low in Ron’s ear, “it’ll be alright mate. It will.” 

Not in the mood for sentiments any longer, the ginger just grumbles. “Let’s get on this ruddy thing before anyone finds us.” 

Somehow, they managed to discreetly find a private compartment, drawing the shade and sitting in silence. 

As the engine gained speed and the train began rolling forward, Ron blocked out whatever nonsense Ginny and Harry were going on about. Instead, he watched the pastures speed by. 

It all felt so wrong. 

For the first time since he was eleven he sat here in this compartment, in their compartment, without her here. It was almost too much to bear. 

No asking if he’d catch up on any assignments. No listening to her talk about her holiday as her eyes shined with joy. No shutting Harry down for wild theories. 

Nothing. 

And despite Harry and Ginny rattling off nearby, there’s nothing. 

Just silence. 

Apparently, a lot of time passed with Ron sitting like that. Gazing out the window and feeling empty. 

The only thing that pulled him from his trance hours later was the door sliding open. He gazed at it with hope, because for some stupid reason, for one second, he imagined Hermione being on the other side. 

Of course, she wasn’t.  

“Oh finally! I’ve checked just about every compartment.” Neville told them, taking a seat next to Ginny. Diagonal from Ron. 

He soon reverted his eyes back to the window, hoping Neville would leave him be. He wasn’t in the mood to socialize. 

“Hey Neville.” Harry said, sitting up and trying to smile, though it faltered. 

However, the fellow Gryffindor didn’t seem to notice. 

“How was everyone’s holiday? Mine was quite good if I say. You see here,” he held up a pot with a pretty flower, “this is a Whispering Lily, my Gran managed to get one, rare things they are. I’m not even entirely sure what it can do. I just know it’s properties are similar to a Dancing Daisy.” He sounded off like they understood. 

“You see I was hoping Hermione could help me, I’d bet she knows. I can nurse plants, sure, but knowing everything about them? Not particularly. So where is she?” He finished, at the mention of her name Ron finally looked up. 

“She's not here.” Harry said shakily, though calm. 

“Oh, loo?” He figured. 

Ginny shook her head, “no Neville she’s not here. As in, she’s not on the train.”

It took a moment but it finally registered with him what Ginny was saying. Neville knew Hermione wouldn’t miss school for anything. Unless of course..

“No! We’ve been owling over holiday, we had been sending letters back and forth, she told me about her Gran!” He exclaimed in disbelief. 

For a brief moment something bubbled deep within Ron. It wasn’t the same insane jealousy he felt when he thought of Hermione and Viktor Krum, but it was more feelings of disappointment. Disappointment in the fact that she didn’t feel sure enough to find that sort of comfort within Ron, despite sharing the same house. 

He soon pushed away those thoughts because soon enough something dawned on him, “When was the last time you owled her?” He finally spoke harshly. 

Neville jumped at the aggression behind his words and the look in his eyes, “uh I don’t know!” 

Ron leaned forward, determined to know the truth. He knew it was far fetched to think she was owling Neville somewhere but at this point he wanted to cling to anything. 

At his look, the brunette shut his eyes in thought, “I sent a letter late Christmas Eve night, it probably arrived in the morning. I haven’t heard from her since. I swear.” He said defensively, though unsure why. 

Harry flicked his gaze to Ron’s nodding at Neville’s words. He can recall the golden owl that he knows to belong to Grandma Longbottom pecking on the Burrow window while the Weasley’s were at Muriel’s. 

At the chosen one's gesture, the red head eased a bit, though his stomach was still turning. The brief hope now squashed and turned into terrible parasites. 

“What’s this all about then? The lot of you are acting like wherever Hermione is she’ll never come back.” Neville piped up after the long tense silence. 

“Of course she’s coming back!” Ron snapped sharply before he could help himself, causing the other boy to flinch. 

“What I think he means is,” Harry starts softer, “is that Hermione’s Grandmother passed over holiday so she’s gone home to Hampstead to deal with it all and the arrangements.” He said, voice quivering over the lie, but to Neville it appeared as mere sadness for their friend. 

“Oh Merlin! That’s terrible! Harry, please tell me next time you write her, will you? I’d like to send a letter out with Hedwig.” He responded sadly. 

At this, the dark haired boy could only morosely nod. 

“Have you heard from her? Is she alright?” He asked next, frantically searching their eyes. 

“No Neville. We haven’t.” The youngest Weasley brother said to them. 

He knew he was letting his anger get the best of him. Not anger at Neville, but at the situation he, Harry, and Ginny have been put in. More importantly, the unknown situation that Ron can only imagine is a grueling hell that Hermione’s in. 

Neville takes a shaky breath, “I’m sorry if I’ve done something to upset you Ron.”

Suddenly he feels guilty, but can’t bring himself to justify his behavior. 

“Ron’s just a little upset, him and Hermione never got to say goodbye.” Ginny commented softly, placing a gentle hand on Neville’s arm. 

“I’m sorry mate,” and again, Neville’s apology feels wrong, like the roles should be reversed, “tell me you sorted everything out with her, yeah?” He asked hopefully. 

Nothing came from the ginger but a rough growl, anger displacing his sadness yet again. 

Sensing as much, Ginny piped up with raised eyebrows and a tone that left no room for argument, “Ron, don't you have a prefect’s meeting?” 

And he did. Normally Hermione would drag him there ten minutes early, but this is how things are now. She’s not here. 

Wordlessly, he stood and exited the compartment, needing some time to breathe. The distraction. 

The only thing that registered were Harry, and Ginny’s voices assuring Neville he did no wrong as they continued their elaborate lie. 

Not wanting to think about all that’s wrong, he let his body go on auto pilot to the prefects car. Just as he reached it, a body knocked into him. 

“Sorry.” They said. 

Turning to investigate he was left mouth agape because Draco Malfoy had apologized for bumping into him. 

“Sorry?” He repeated. 

Draco said nothing but instead pushed on into the compartment and moved to talk to Katie Bell, who seemed to pass back from her poisoning. 

Ron remained outside for a little, mentally preparing himself for the barrage of questions that’s bound to come about his absentee partner. Another thing that also remains in the back of his mind is Draco Malfoy’s behavior, something  he’ll have to catalogue and look into later.

After all, his father is a Death Eater. His Aunt is Bellatrix Lestrange. 

Not realizing he’d been lingering for five minutes, he soon entered behind Ernie Macmillan. 

The first five minutes of the meeting dragged on. He spent most of his time observing an uncharacteristically quiet and squirming Draco Malfoy. 

Maybe he was spending too much time with Harry. Looking into something as simple as an apology and now he’s suddenly got a hundred different scenarios conjured up that involve the blonde git holding Hermione somewhere. Torturing, mocking, hurting her. 

It drives him wild with rage, but he knows it’s something just capitalizing on. Something he’s determined to fixate on just to distract him from the Order’s failed attempts to bring in Hermione. 

But would it do more harm than good raising suspicions with Malfoy? On the very off chance he is right, asking could only-

“And because of Hermione not being here. We’ve rearranged the schedule a bit for you Ron.” 

His eyes instantly snap to Katie’s at the mention of her name. It’s used in such a nonchalant, casual manner. Everyone at the Burrow has just been referring to Hermione as ‘she’ for the better part of a week. 

All he can do is deafly nod in response. His ears suddenly ringing, with all thoughts of Malfoy leaving his brain. He feels like for the first time since it all happened, the weight of his much everything is going to change is now laying on his shoulder as heavy as ever. 

No more prefect rounds. No more doing homework in the common room. No more dining hall. No more classes. Hell, even no more of him watching her ignore him. Even that was better than this. 

And on top of it all, to everyone around him, he had to appear as if that were okay. That he could survive without Hermione, that it wasn’t killing him. 

Surely he’s already failed at that, he could barely speak to Neville without biting his head off. 

As much as all of these dark thoughts swim in his brain, he knows he needs to remind himself that this isn’t forever. That Hermione will come home and they can do all those things again. 

He tells himself this over and over, despite knowing that if, when, she comes home, things will never be the same. 

For the remainder of the meeting the only thing that rings in his head are those three horrid words she spoke before vanishing. 

Come find me. 

  Over and over playing out in his head. He’s so distracted, he’s failed to notice the cart is not vacant, save for Katie, and the meeting over. 

“-go.” He hears her say. 

Soon he shakes his head, “sorry what?” 

“I said you can go, Ron.” The brunette seventh year says. 

“Oh right, sorry.” Quickly he moves to exit the compartment. 

“Bye Ron, like I said, let me know-“ 

He stopped abruptly, something just now dawning on him. Not even able to focus on the fact apparently she’d been having a full blown conversation with him. 

“Hey Katie?” He halts, voice rather shaky. 

“Yes Ron?” She asked with a quirked brow, almost sensing his unease. 

“How did you know about Hermione?” He asked almost forcefully, “that she’s taking some time uh, away.” The ginger managed softer, willing himself not to cry. 

“Oh, well Draco told me.” She responded like it was the most simple thing in the world, like that would make sense. 

“He did?” Ron asked rather taken aback. 

Katie nodded, “sure. He said he’d heard she was spending time with her folks,” her voice dropped into a whisper, “I had around the tower her Grandma was ill.”

Not wanting to give himself away Ron just nodded shakily, “right.” 

Still, how did Malfoy know she wouldn’t be here? Could Harry have been right... no there’s no way. He’s a tosser! What would You-Know-Who want from him? Fashion advice? 

Noting the far off look on his face, the Head Girl spoke again, “hey if you’re worried about doing this alone we can always get someone to help until-“ 

“No!” He jumps in quickly, rather loudly too, “no, I mean, I’ll be fine.” The ginger covers up 

Still looking skeptical Katie nodded and offered a weak smile before vacating the compartment. 

He needed to find Malfoy right now

[yespoetry]

Caitlin Scarano: There Is No Ending

I know we’re all sick of poems with deer but let me explain

 Last night: a forest of hospital beds

 I want to ask all these strangers: do you ever think every day you’re getting closer to your death or do you wake in the morning with hope crusted in the corner of your eyes, your teeth already grinning at the air?

 Grief is a very complex machine, it told me so itself, a matrix

that takes years

A.     to navigate

B.      from you like teeth

 Dear J, I have a few acres all to myself now, you should see them

 I’m sorry you had to turn so many stones

while I looked on at a careful distance

 The male human heart at age 36

Who knew, I guess

 It’s true that I didn’t mind the horses starving outside my window, as long as they

            came when called, as long as they were gentle with their teeth

            I mean, I had many apples going to rot, what else could I have done

 I read about how the water in Lake Superior is replaced every 191 years

 Remember the spot where I dove under and was rolled by a wave and for a moment I did not know what was up or down, what was past or present, you or⁠—

 That winter, the lake froze, trace lines of cracks in the ice colliding, the fractures in my body all met

 In another dream, you’re in front of me⁠—solid, tangible, with a dark beard and corduroy pants

I ask you about dying and he you say, Let’s go to this city I know

Then you disappear into a tangled forest and I follow, stumbling, ripped by thorns

 You’re always just out of reach, always just turning the next corner

 Remember those children we watched while we ate ice cream on that green bench in Sault Saint Marie? Silly

            that isn’t my favorite memory of you, not by far but it’s the one I keep

coming back to

 I took it so I should have wanted it

But the sugar made my teeth ache

 Every memory is two-sided, like that day we lay in the grass watching ships pass through the lochs

Distance is deceptive

It was sunny, the photos you took prove it

            But the wind⁠—

 Or the wind and the rain that day we met at the lighthouse, you wore a black sweater, I hadn’t seen you

            in years, you looked younger, time doing its mirror trick

 The scene draws us

We weren’t ghosts but we were

both adrift, though only one of us knew it

 When I reach the city you spoke of, it’s been abandoned for decades

 Every memory is two-sided, like the time you were driving and the Jeep hit

black ice and spun out

Like the time I was driving and my car died as we coasted down hill

 In a human dream, electric blue hydrozoan creatures blossom in the Superior’s deepest water

 Every memory is two-sided, and nothing is mine to claim

 I run these dirt trails near my house, I think of you, I touch my chest, count my breaths

One day I came upon this mother dear and two fawns, they were tiny, spotted, legs so ready to give out but they did not give out

 J, you should have seen them

  Generational, Domestic

 I drink from the cup that made me

before blood congeals across the top.

 Touch the muscles of your back

while you sleep. What does cruelty express?

 A fear so deep it creates its own

gravity, the world pours in around

 the rim. Despite how light clawed, it could not

get out⁠—not after, not from within. I live by a river

 and dream of living by another river. Throw my baby

teeth into it like coins in a well. Wish and watch

 water pass, think of how it bows and braids,

think of the circulatory system, nervous

 birds on loop. My niece appears in a dirt-stained

dress holding yellow zinnias as they blossom

 and rot, blossom and⁠—Does movement remind you

of death or escape? When you bite the inside

 of my thigh, what memory of violence 

unfurls like a seed? Generational, domestic. Your mother

 tells you she prays for us and I swallow

it whole like a duck egg. A blue mud wasp

 taps against my window, where its always

been. While we sleep, bindweed inches up

 the walls and ceiling. Coils around the lamps.

Tomorrow, we’ll eat the heads of morning.

 A Litany of Dreams You May Borrow

 The one where I pick sunlight off my skin like scales or sequins

 Or I have a boy’s torso and a jaw

that doesn’t lock when I start to laugh

 Any of the dreams with snakes or my mother trapped in a radiator vent

            because they spring from the same well

 My little sister and I are teenagers again, still speaking to each other, and she climbs a sugar maple and never comes back

 The ones where rain comes through the roof but not the ones where it is snowing in my room

 S. and I still live together but a gray horse circles the house, starving

No one names it

 My father is in a hospice bed, holding up his rot-dappled organs one by one

as offerings to me

 The cow pasture

where I’m in a wedding dress carrying a pitcher of his blood

 B. and I are back on the beach at night and she kisses me except this time ocean is made of milk and sweet

 No one invents sin so we sun ourselves on the rooftop

 Any dream of my grandfather⁠—that skull for a face, the parrot watching on, the white sheet and long fingernails

            In fact, you may keep them, convince yourself there is a lesson

 The dream where the brakes gave out

The dream where the brakes gave out

 His head is in my lap and the window is open even though it is January outside

 A war between nations of men takes place in my mother’s dining room

            My sisters and I watch from beneath a table

 Those you can leave: any dream where he says my name

aloud or his mouth is against my hair, any dream

where the dead forgive

 The first girl I loved asking Are you sure you don’t know me? until she disappears

 The whole room slants and I fall from the bed to the wall as if the house is trying to shake me from itself like a parasite

 The dream I had after S. found the knife I hid beneath the nightstand

 The one where I saw our sons using sticks as swords, their mouths yellow

and chose not to have them

 The first gentle boy from my childhood is back and we are in love

 When the church burns down and my sisters and I are blamed

 The one where what I love is not unwell, not in need at all, so I shrink to the size of a kitchen ant and crawl away

 My mother is my daughter and when she speaks, hummingbirds fill her mouth like arrows

 The one where I actually forgive him and he leans back then, rests his eyes, says

            There is no ending

  Alessandra sends me two pictures of her son eating his first strawberry

 while I’m home alone reading about central sleep apnea because this morning Calvin woke me up at 5AM by rubbing my back because (he said) I kept holding my breath and he is afraid (but doesn’t say) that I might stop breathing all together. On our jog today Cara told me that she’s going to try dating again and there isn’t much out there so she’s meeting a corporate lawyer all the way in Seattle for lunch on Thursday. Part of me is jealous—to get to meet strangers that you might have sex with or raise a puppy with is to feel very specifically alive right? The internet says I cannot suffocate in my sleep. I have this one memory of when I’m four or five and my father is sitting in the tub and I just let myself in to the bathroom and ask him how often he clipped his toenails and he laughs like kids are so fucking werid and says and said Maybe once a week? When we can’t stop worrying about each others deaths this is how I know we need each other. I can’t remember Alessandra’s baby’s name even though I met him once when we were in Portland. I don’t want children but one time on a long drive I imagined a three or four year old kid in the backseat of my Subaru asking me smart and weird kid questions and me giving honest answers and developing this whole lifelong relationship with a human like there is a way to never be lonely. I was startled by a sound but it wasn’t really a sound just a door closing in my body. I didn’t tell Calvin about it. Instead we talked about our little sisters and how we’re scared for them. The internet says my brain will panic and wake me up. I tell him I want him to confide in me but what do you say to I have a very real fear that the next time I hear about her it could be that she’s dead. I get it at least somewhat—what it means to see a boat drifting away from you. The last time I saw M she was more angry than any person I can remember it was like being beside a live wire I wasn’t sure if I could speak if I could even ask her if she was okay without making her not okay like the whole world is made of string and it can unravel if you say or even think the wrong thing. I don’t think there is a way to never be lonely. In the pictures the baby’s fingers are red and his laughing and sitting on a checkered picnic blanket and it looks like real summer in Wisconsin. I don’t really want to date strangers again. Everyone good I’ve found I still don’t know how I kept them. Some days I don’t want him to leave the house for fear of what might happen next. I remember when M and I were little she was hardly ever mad just withdrawn and we were there like two islands beside each other never really able to say what we meant or needed and now my mother calls me and she’s just painted the trim in the living room mountain air white and she starts to cry thinking about thirty years in the house where she raised us that she wants to sell and I say You haven't left yet and she says I’m already gone. Calvin just texts his sister now even though he knows he won’t get a response and I imagine those messages floating in a black void with stars because it all goes somewhere. I write back Don't you wish you could remember your first strawberry? The interest promises me I’ll take another breath.

 The mountain has no childhood to speak of

 and no child to soothe. Thought it might tell you something

of its formation, even though it does not remember.

 Or that there is no universally agreed upon definition

of a mountain. It would speak less about light

 and ascension and more about its insides. I have veins,

the mountain would say, a circulatory system of sorts

 but no organs. The mountain would predict your disappointment.

It would refuse your offer for a brain and a heart. Knowledge

 and loneliness, the mountain would explain, pass from sky

to water to stone. Mountain embodies strangeness, thus has no notion

 of strangeness. Mountain understands destination.

It has been desired. It knows you

 think it’s trapped; that it has never left and will never leave.

But, if we let it speak, it would tell you: I have touched

 every corner and crevice of this carved valley. Has seen so much

come and go⁠—loon, kingfisher, lynx. The people that

 tried to erase people. Mountain has hounded

wander. But will have nothing to say about hunger.

 If you sit with it long enough, mountain might admit, I am afraid

of dying. Of the slow wearing, the slow away. Wind and water.

 Mountain will teach you a word that means both companion

and destroyer. Though it does not sleep, mountain dreams,

 of being ripped out by the roots. Mountain wonders

if mountains bleed.

Caitlin Scarano is a poet based in northwest Washington. She holds a PhD in English (creative writing) from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee and an MFA in Poetry from the University of Alaska Fairbanks. She was selected as a participant in the National Science Foundation’s Antarctic Artists & Writers Program. Her debut collection of poems, Do Not Bring Him Water, was released in Fall 2017. Her work has appeared in Granta, Best New Poets, Best Small Fictions, Carve, and Colorado Review. You can find her at caitlinscarano.com