Melita
they should have checked the ashes
of the women they burned alive
of the women they burned alive
Too alike in many regards, the whirlwind only became a vibrant, frenetic, restless cataclysm. The fire had been built, stoked, kindled, and set alight, both reaching in to add to the fuel, to add to the conflagration. The treacherous wake of her eyes gave everything away – her sorrow, her rancor, her regrets, her contempt; a seething bout of loathing gathered there, for a multitude of promises not kept, for a multitude of excuses less than satisfying. She didn’t care about his armored skin or his draconic edges, because she’d been born in a land of molten sun, boldness, and audacity, and clung to it now, an unfurling heathen. His first words made very little sense to her, and she snorted, pricking and poking, nettling and thorning, coming undone at the seams. “What does that even mean?” How does someone not remember their own wedding?
His fault. Her fault. Their fault. Probably a combination of the latter, but she was already too hellbent on her side, on the wounds continuously scattered on her mind, on the blatant way she had no place in anyone’s life. “I didn’t say you were terrible. Stop putting words in my mouth, and just listen.” A deep, deep breath was taken, snapping over the coals, the cinders, the fire in her lungs; and she could hear those soft beams of laughter again, as if they were striving to pacify, to soothe, to disengage with the nonsense. Melita didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to know it, in those moments – but the fringes had been caught, becoming less of an inferno. “I am tired of being forgotten.” Tired of being the last to know. Tired of being taken for granted. Tired of being there and there and there and pulled apart from someone’s stupefying antics. For somehow not being enough for any of them. “I had gifts for you two, I –“
Then she ceased – because what was the point. She spun around on her heel, and began to stomp away from the boundaries, turning towards the rocks. “Forget it. You don’t understand and you don’t even try to.”
His fault. Her fault. Their fault. Probably a combination of the latter, but she was already too hellbent on her side, on the wounds continuously scattered on her mind, on the blatant way she had no place in anyone’s life. “I didn’t say you were terrible. Stop putting words in my mouth, and just listen.” A deep, deep breath was taken, snapping over the coals, the cinders, the fire in her lungs; and she could hear those soft beams of laughter again, as if they were striving to pacify, to soothe, to disengage with the nonsense. Melita didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to know it, in those moments – but the fringes had been caught, becoming less of an inferno. “I am tired of being forgotten.” Tired of being the last to know. Tired of being taken for granted. Tired of being there and there and there and pulled apart from someone’s stupefying antics. For somehow not being enough for any of them. “I had gifts for you two, I –“
Then she ceased – because what was the point. She spun around on her heel, and began to stomp away from the boundaries, turning towards the rocks. “Forget it. You don’t understand and you don’t even try to.”
because it takes a single wild ember
to bring a whole wildfire to life
to bring a whole wildfire to life
