Melita
I never had a chance to be soft
I was always bloody knuckles
I was always bloody knuckles
The number of times Melita had looked inward, at feelings, at things beyond the semantics of abhorrence and wrath, could probably be counted on one hand. She swallowed down the world and got on with it, stubbornly refusing to retreat to portions of shame or love – easier to bear when everything churned over and disappeared. She eschewed propriety and carried on the age-old tradition of boldness and audacity, clambered over the respective decorum and set things ablaze; turned back to ensure the rest followed. Iskra had been there, through thick and thin, and then suddenly, like many others, he’d vanished –
And thereafter, like little figments of dreams and yesteryears, re-emerged. Caido had often been about second or third chances, repetitive natures converged around one another, pulled by strings or bonds, confluence of stubborn individuals, or just the wake of the earth. But Melita had seen how the world worked one too many times; succumbed herself, and figured there’d be harsher lines for those fixtures too. Snarled. Glared. Bared her fangs. And could admit, wound tightly in her chest, that she’d been very, very wrong. Or caught staring – wanting, without understanding the complexities, the reasonings behind it; hadn’t even deigned to look at the layers building.
Her predictions had been about similar patterns – they’d fall into old routines, parallel routes, lines in the sand. Except nowadays they kept re-sketching them or drawing new ones entirely, and she found herself exposed on the banks; uncertain, exposed, and muddled. But it’d become very clear that he hadn’t been. Just patiently waiting for her to pick and choose the way.
She didn’t have the words yet, not like him, molded to her features like she meant something other than ruin or chaos. Her eyes widened again, awestruck, bewildered, before she shook her head, felt his lips at the corner of her mouth, gasped at the stubble, the materials between. “I’m sorry – I didn’t know,” she started, and then snorted, laughed, felt something gathering in the corner of her eyes and dashed it away with the back of her hand. Little bouts of bedlam never had anyone’s heart – not in her experience – but the words made her want to curl and bask, something worthy of all these fragments and adorations. Of tenacious woodcutters with too much sorrow and anguish, pulling others out and leaving himself behind. Not on her watch. “You can have mine too,” she offered in an emboldened whisper, quiet but assured, a piece, without guards or walls or veils of fire he had to run through, freely granted and given.
Then her fingers drew to the bottom hem of his shirt, barriers begging to be removed, covetous, greedy, mercenary fixtures buzzing, tugging, pulling in her pulse. Her own figure shuddered under his simple ministrations along her hip, body immediately wanting to shimmy out of the fleece-lined leggings, but prolonging the action so he could pry them away. She met him halfway regardless, closed the distance, eyes hooded, mind warped and wanton, the grin and command against his lips as her hands began to roam upward, over muscles, unknown ink. “Take it off.”
And thereafter, like little figments of dreams and yesteryears, re-emerged. Caido had often been about second or third chances, repetitive natures converged around one another, pulled by strings or bonds, confluence of stubborn individuals, or just the wake of the earth. But Melita had seen how the world worked one too many times; succumbed herself, and figured there’d be harsher lines for those fixtures too. Snarled. Glared. Bared her fangs. And could admit, wound tightly in her chest, that she’d been very, very wrong. Or caught staring – wanting, without understanding the complexities, the reasonings behind it; hadn’t even deigned to look at the layers building.
Her predictions had been about similar patterns – they’d fall into old routines, parallel routes, lines in the sand. Except nowadays they kept re-sketching them or drawing new ones entirely, and she found herself exposed on the banks; uncertain, exposed, and muddled. But it’d become very clear that he hadn’t been. Just patiently waiting for her to pick and choose the way.
She didn’t have the words yet, not like him, molded to her features like she meant something other than ruin or chaos. Her eyes widened again, awestruck, bewildered, before she shook her head, felt his lips at the corner of her mouth, gasped at the stubble, the materials between. “I’m sorry – I didn’t know,” she started, and then snorted, laughed, felt something gathering in the corner of her eyes and dashed it away with the back of her hand. Little bouts of bedlam never had anyone’s heart – not in her experience – but the words made her want to curl and bask, something worthy of all these fragments and adorations. Of tenacious woodcutters with too much sorrow and anguish, pulling others out and leaving himself behind. Not on her watch. “You can have mine too,” she offered in an emboldened whisper, quiet but assured, a piece, without guards or walls or veils of fire he had to run through, freely granted and given.
Then her fingers drew to the bottom hem of his shirt, barriers begging to be removed, covetous, greedy, mercenary fixtures buzzing, tugging, pulling in her pulse. Her own figure shuddered under his simple ministrations along her hip, body immediately wanting to shimmy out of the fleece-lined leggings, but prolonging the action so he could pry them away. She met him halfway regardless, closed the distance, eyes hooded, mind warped and wanton, the grin and command against his lips as her hands began to roam upward, over muscles, unknown ink. “Take it off.”
and shards of glass
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
