MELITA
She suddenly felt exhausted, as if the weight of the world shambled down her spine, plucked against her scars, and pounded into her skull. Perhaps it was the blight, desperate for the resurgence of its control and power again, but she swallowed down its cumbersome, overwhelming void for the moment, coiled and curled, balanced precariously, steadily losing the might in her body, in her bones, to keep her aloft. One hand swiped at the blackened tears streaming and cascading down her face, eyes lingering on the stain they left behind on her skin – gods, how had she become so broken, so distorted, so unraveled? The siren’s song seemed to have stopped, stifling temptations for the moment – her heart thought to flee but her figure was too dispirited, fatigued, fighting a losing battle just to keep her eyes open.The stranger’s words shuffled against her and she shook again, thinking she’d need to get away from him (what had she done?). But the vocals were low, a murmur, meant to be placating and pacifying, and she swallowed again, head raised, crimson locks tangling into the wind. It wasn’t your fault - but whose was it? Who had control over her figure, over her form? Who made her chase down thorns and roses? Who made her seek destruction? Some portion of herself must have had some modicum of coercion; as for the rest, the blight stoked and unfurled, pressed into her veins with vicious insistence, kept at bay by either the pricking of the rose against her sides, or vehement combinations.
He should’ve left her there. Should’ve fled. Should’ve let her fall apart at the seams.
“Melita,” she responded, wrapping her arms around herself as she remained in the branch, like a little bird left behind for the winter – the madness orchestrating no sense of wellbeing. At his insistence, her gaze drifted downward, more herself in those snatches of moments, emboldened enough to thrust herself out of the bough, landing haphazardly on shaking limbs.
She's so hard to please
But she's a forest fire
But she's a forest fire
