MELITA
Melita had always thought of them as vastly different – Clementine gentle where she was brash, Clementine soft when she’d been wild, Clementine a generous, beneficent soul, where Melita was a brushfire, ready to be set, kindled, and ignited on any justified means. Little bees, little drones, little buzzing granules and petals in the wildflower fields, laden with all the time, all the measures, all the harmony in the world – severed and ripped apart in the next. But Clementine had never lost her compassion. Melita had butchered hers somewhere, in between columns of bitterness and rancor for those she thought responsible for deaths, for desecration, for ruin; hanging onto those vengeful notions for as long as she could. Would her twin have done the same? No - forgiveness would’ve been rendered almost immediately. She didn’t know, would’ve prospered in regards to Kiada and all her entanglements with the false god, all the massacres and sacrifices ensued thereafter. Her sister would’ve sought out absolution and created a new aura of compassion. Melita wanted the Harpy suffering, miserable, just like the rest of them. Perhaps that’s where the line was drawn, because the youth couldn’t move on, couldn’t move past, couldn’t stretch her neck forward and trace somewhere not lined with nettles and thorns. Maybe she was blind. Maybe she was rash. Maybe she couldn’t take the quiet any longer, and bristled, seethed, and burned apart because it was better than sinking. She thought about shaking her head, about arguing the thoughts Sunjata pulsed out loud. “We’ll always fight,” she swallowed and pierced instead, firm and determined, to take her place in the row of resolute, adamant fools. Her eyes twisted upwards to meet his for a moment on the last rumble, only catching a few words she knew – something about little bees in the world, and the girl wished there could’ve been hundreds more of their tales and exploits, their stories and triumphs. Then her gaze lifted back to the flowers placed on their sill, on the petals vibrant in hue, color, and wonder. “Once, our friend Iskra took us to a dome – and it led into the ocean, so you could see fish, dolphins, coral, and everything along the reef, with your nose pressed to the glass. Maybe I’ll find something like that too, and put it there for her.” Soft, gentled musings, and nothing more: pieces of ocean, shells, little fragments of memories no one else could have.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
