Melita
I never had a chance to be soft
I was always bloody knuckles
I was always bloody knuckles
She’d tossed the synapses and ichor out there while ignoring the heart of the matter; tiptoeing around the anchor as if she were in a set of waves and currents, barely dabbling her toes in the surface of the swell. Perhaps because some part of her feared the answer being exactly as she’d presumed, and then she’d simply thrown them into the undertow for nothing more than comprehension and a newfound insecurity. It was a precarious situation, dangling lines and wires and jumbled multitudes together without naming them at all, picking over bits and pieces until she thought she’d found a particular stone to uncover. Wouldn’t have been the first time she fumbled and fell, led someone into disaster.
So she watched without admitting anything initially – save for perhaps in her face, gilded gaze going back and forth over his own stare, his brows, his mouth, waiting for something to pierce. No grin lingered, her features becoming a manifestation of confusion and inner turmoil that wouldn’t have appeared anywhere else. One hand still clenched the couch cushion like a lifeline, the other settled somewhere near the edges of his shirt, head tilting to study and peruse and try to figure things out before he actually voiced them.
And then he seemed scared too – and she didn’t quite know what to do with that. Ordinarily, someone’s fear, especially prompted by her, would rouse all semblances of satisfaction – a greedy little torrent of gloating properties – a bloom in her chest, a catlike grin. None of that shifted in her now, body rigid again as if she was prepared to launch off something, fumbling around in the dark.
The admittance caused her eyes to widen, bewildered, cheeks flashing an instant’s worth of rosiness before his final statement hit her – sounding like an excuse with nothing else attached to it. “Okay, so,” her words roamed before her mind had any control over what to do or say, feeling like she was flailing despite her form remaining held in his. “I guess…I don’t understand or like -,” she breathed, trying to settle that wild, chaotic drumming in her head, echoing down through her chest, rabbit-like, knife held at its ribs. “What’s stopping you or-,” maybe it was her. Maybe he thought she hadn’t enjoyed it. She thought she’d been fairly receptive to the whole idea. Her gaze went downward, along sweaters and chests, feeding a sigh smoldering in her chest and thousand other emotions rambling through. Her brain was a series of thoughts rotating through and hardly coordinated, trying to simplify things much too large all at once. “I mean, I liked it.”
So she watched without admitting anything initially – save for perhaps in her face, gilded gaze going back and forth over his own stare, his brows, his mouth, waiting for something to pierce. No grin lingered, her features becoming a manifestation of confusion and inner turmoil that wouldn’t have appeared anywhere else. One hand still clenched the couch cushion like a lifeline, the other settled somewhere near the edges of his shirt, head tilting to study and peruse and try to figure things out before he actually voiced them.
And then he seemed scared too – and she didn’t quite know what to do with that. Ordinarily, someone’s fear, especially prompted by her, would rouse all semblances of satisfaction – a greedy little torrent of gloating properties – a bloom in her chest, a catlike grin. None of that shifted in her now, body rigid again as if she was prepared to launch off something, fumbling around in the dark.
The admittance caused her eyes to widen, bewildered, cheeks flashing an instant’s worth of rosiness before his final statement hit her – sounding like an excuse with nothing else attached to it. “Okay, so,” her words roamed before her mind had any control over what to do or say, feeling like she was flailing despite her form remaining held in his. “I guess…I don’t understand or like -,” she breathed, trying to settle that wild, chaotic drumming in her head, echoing down through her chest, rabbit-like, knife held at its ribs. “What’s stopping you or-,” maybe it was her. Maybe he thought she hadn’t enjoyed it. She thought she’d been fairly receptive to the whole idea. Her gaze went downward, along sweaters and chests, feeding a sigh smoldering in her chest and thousand other emotions rambling through. Her brain was a series of thoughts rotating through and hardly coordinated, trying to simplify things much too large all at once. “I mean, I liked it.”
and shards of glass
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
