Melita
they should have checked the ashes
of the women they burned alive
of the women they burned alive
“Like what?” The obstinate defiance fumbled away at the ranklings of curiosity – that others had seen, heard, nuanced things that couldn’t possibly be there. Then it returned as she glanced at his arm, the offering instilled, and her stubborn, mercurial pursuits ignored it. The honeybee rose from the water on her own, acting as if it’d all been purposefully managed (not at all), stepping along the boundaries until she’d cleared the embankments.
And she hated how calm he was, in the face of her rising, brewing, brimming anger. In all the aspects of her frustration. He must’ve known. He must’ve understood – no matter how many god damned time she’d told him she didn’t want to be forgotten. She didn’t want to be misplaced. She didn’t want to be the last to know. She didn’t want to be the child running behind, so vastly uncertain of the world, of the family, she’d embedded herself within. Because on the outside looking in, he had everyone and anyone enraptured, embroiled, and there didn’t seem to be any room for her.
It didn’t matter that she’d went and found Nate. It didn’t matter that she tried to care for them. It never fucking mattered.
Gods, how badly she wanted to poke and prod and needle and thorn now. It was tempting, to half-draw a dagger, to poise it aloft or raise it towards his ribs, just so he’d know and understand how annoyed, how enraged, she truly was. The seething measures rankled over her skin, along the touches of her furrowed brows, upon the dangerous etchings of her voice. “Were you ever going to tell me?” Her arms crossed over her chest, and she thought about kicking at a stone, a mulish conjecture to her raised jaw.
And she hated how calm he was, in the face of her rising, brewing, brimming anger. In all the aspects of her frustration. He must’ve known. He must’ve understood – no matter how many god damned time she’d told him she didn’t want to be forgotten. She didn’t want to be misplaced. She didn’t want to be the last to know. She didn’t want to be the child running behind, so vastly uncertain of the world, of the family, she’d embedded herself within. Because on the outside looking in, he had everyone and anyone enraptured, embroiled, and there didn’t seem to be any room for her.
It didn’t matter that she’d went and found Nate. It didn’t matter that she tried to care for them. It never fucking mattered.
Gods, how badly she wanted to poke and prod and needle and thorn now. It was tempting, to half-draw a dagger, to poise it aloft or raise it towards his ribs, just so he’d know and understand how annoyed, how enraged, she truly was. The seething measures rankled over her skin, along the touches of her furrowed brows, upon the dangerous etchings of her voice. “Were you ever going to tell me?” Her arms crossed over her chest, and she thought about kicking at a stone, a mulish conjecture to her raised jaw.
because it takes a single wild ember
to bring a whole wildfire to life
to bring a whole wildfire to life
