Melita
I never had a chance to be soft
I was always bloody knuckles
I was always bloody knuckles
Melita half-hoped he’d understand instantly, and she wouldn’t have to pursue down this rumbling road of unknowns and vague notions – fragments that might only exist in her own mind. Instead, it was the simplicity of the intertwining; not the inward tracings, not the lines moderately drawn, then zigzagged, not the instants she thought obvious. She could feel the mulish tendencies and twitches already beginning to work their way through her jaw and fingers, tightly clenching that pillow and deeply wishing she could just beat the shit out of something and have it solve every dilemma. Those were her safety measures, her hidden daggers, her resolute beacons of walls. If she could barrage and sear, then that would be enough.
Except not everyone was going to keep putting their hands in her fire, waiting for the next time she burned them. Maybe that was her fear, somewhere along the way, if she dared to examine any closer, that eventually all she was going to have were ashes. It’d be her own fault. Wasted. Deluded. Confined to all her anger and nothing else. Friends and moments more stabbed and lacerated and sent to their pyres because she would’ve preferred the sanctity of her rage.
She stilled; a dangerous aspect all on its own. Her lips twitched, then she looked at his mouth – and his stupid handsome face and his patience and his forbearance, wondering how much she’d already picked apart too. Perhaps it was no wonder why he hadn’t said anything – just went for it and then hastened back. Who wouldn’t.
The treacherous thoughts threatened to be wallowing, and Melita didn’t do that. She didn’t sit there, scared in the midst. Swallowing down those insecurities and suppressing them until the boldness engulfed again, renewed, she shook her head, cleared her throat. “No, I know that, I meant-,” her gaze drifted elsewhere, then back to him, trying to regain that fortitude and figure out where she was going while her mind sprinted down the lane. “Like we’ve kissed twice and you never said anything so I-,” she shrugged haplessly, hands loosening away from the pillow and swung around in the air. “Figured you didn’t like it or something, so do you want to pretend it didn’t happen or -,” which was probably what he’d been doing before now – so she shut her mouth and sighed.
Except not everyone was going to keep putting their hands in her fire, waiting for the next time she burned them. Maybe that was her fear, somewhere along the way, if she dared to examine any closer, that eventually all she was going to have were ashes. It’d be her own fault. Wasted. Deluded. Confined to all her anger and nothing else. Friends and moments more stabbed and lacerated and sent to their pyres because she would’ve preferred the sanctity of her rage.
She stilled; a dangerous aspect all on its own. Her lips twitched, then she looked at his mouth – and his stupid handsome face and his patience and his forbearance, wondering how much she’d already picked apart too. Perhaps it was no wonder why he hadn’t said anything – just went for it and then hastened back. Who wouldn’t.
The treacherous thoughts threatened to be wallowing, and Melita didn’t do that. She didn’t sit there, scared in the midst. Swallowing down those insecurities and suppressing them until the boldness engulfed again, renewed, she shook her head, cleared her throat. “No, I know that, I meant-,” her gaze drifted elsewhere, then back to him, trying to regain that fortitude and figure out where she was going while her mind sprinted down the lane. “Like we’ve kissed twice and you never said anything so I-,” she shrugged haplessly, hands loosening away from the pillow and swung around in the air. “Figured you didn’t like it or something, so do you want to pretend it didn’t happen or -,” which was probably what he’d been doing before now – so she shut her mouth and sighed.
and shards of glass
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
