MELITA
No ruses; the honeybee was thoroughly distracted and deterred now, contemplating a next set of actions in groups and shadows. Did she want to be taught any healing measures? Was it just an excuse for her to not bury herself in memories? Was it an opportunity for her to shy away, to not see how unlike her sibling, her mother, she’d been? How the potential for failure would riddle and rankle down upon her shoulders? Or was it another favorable intonation, a chance to become better, brighter, far more skilled in something anyone around her could need? That she wouldn’t be all thorns and fires, all flames and vitriol? Her fingers clenched together tightly, perhaps the only sign of her discomfort, in the uncertainty, in the mercurial, tempestuous whims clinging to her mind. Her skull went a mile a minute, back and forth, forth and back, with the tremulous indications of too many ministrations. But then there were other notions: assisting with monsoon preparation, training, organizing support, merely extending herself as she’d always done – hardly an alteration in some aspects at all. “Oh,” came first, as if those semblances hadn’t even been considered until this very moment. “I can probably do that.” The lightest of grins fostered its way along her mouth, and a sentiment, a sigh, of relief began to unfurl over the embers of her soul; no need to catch and stoke the fibers, the mettle, the grit. “I help as much as I can anyway.” When she wasn’t sailing, when she wasn’t caught along tides, currents, fathoms, and seas.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
