Melita
I never had a chance to be soft
I was always bloody knuckles
I was always bloody knuckles
Settled there, she watched him; waiting for something. Maybe regret, like hordes of others had shaped before her – boiled over when she wasn’t enough or wanted or forgotten, shunned, easily swept, abandoned, to the side. Maybe shame, because she hadn’t been quite what he’d craved after all. She could feel that primeval, inherent armor threatening to slide over her frame like an invisible guard, trying to protect her before the inevitable gutted her in the ribs –
But he just stayed; hands straying over her skin and plucking at her hair. Her head tilted, and she took a deep, steadying breath, trying to forge away all those insecurities – because none of those awful thoughts had ever really been Iskra. Just a slate of individuals no longer in her life.
So she smirked, rendering her intrepid daring again, one finger tracing the muscled contours on his chest. “What a bold claim.” What if I hold you to it? she almost said, but kept along her tongue, her own audacity flaring to elsewhere. “But this is nice.” Somewhere within her ribcage, the sudden thought that they could’ve had this years ago, if they weren’t so melancholic or dim or torn at the edges, but kept that lodged and locked away too. Perhaps that didn’t matter – they’d grabbed and snatched something here, on their own, despite the time and foolishness.
Nor, of course, did she have any thoughts about the future; the present surprising, awe-inspiring, and beguiling on its own.
But he just stayed; hands straying over her skin and plucking at her hair. Her head tilted, and she took a deep, steadying breath, trying to forge away all those insecurities – because none of those awful thoughts had ever really been Iskra. Just a slate of individuals no longer in her life.
So she smirked, rendering her intrepid daring again, one finger tracing the muscled contours on his chest. “What a bold claim.” What if I hold you to it? she almost said, but kept along her tongue, her own audacity flaring to elsewhere. “But this is nice.” Somewhere within her ribcage, the sudden thought that they could’ve had this years ago, if they weren’t so melancholic or dim or torn at the edges, but kept that lodged and locked away too. Perhaps that didn’t matter – they’d grabbed and snatched something here, on their own, despite the time and foolishness.
Nor, of course, did she have any thoughts about the future; the present surprising, awe-inspiring, and beguiling on its own.
and shards of glass
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
