Melita
I never had a chance to be soft
I was always bloody knuckles
I was always bloody knuckles
Make no mistake, she was still mad.
It only dimmed slightly, the embers and cinders not yet dragged over another round of coals and incendiary means. Stoked and honed, gathered on the edges of her ramparts, there, stewing, brewing beneath the surface, but pushed down for now. There were too many other unwinding, bizarre, strange circumstances pending, and she could maneuver around the onslaughts, the rage, for better means and measures. She could place it aside, a burning niche, a frustrated, vexed wake, a vicious howl in the back of her throat.
See? Maturing.
Her steps were light, quick, bounding, and as soon as she hit a familiar path, it was a dead run (ignoring the well of laughter, the sprigs of song suddenly ghosting into her ears from all sides) – sprinting limbs, extended and long, meant to be like a hastened sprite, a dashing nymph, a pulsing, fervent figure. Fangorn in her arms, and the rest of her a glorified, tempestuous being, her locks flames, her movements an opus to energy and fervency, until she reached the house, barging in with a loud echo of the door. “Sunjata!” Gaining her breath after her holler, she placed Fangorn down (jostled after the hasty bombardment), and began to search the confines, passing through apertures and entrances, a seething little maelstrom of her own.
It only dimmed slightly, the embers and cinders not yet dragged over another round of coals and incendiary means. Stoked and honed, gathered on the edges of her ramparts, there, stewing, brewing beneath the surface, but pushed down for now. There were too many other unwinding, bizarre, strange circumstances pending, and she could maneuver around the onslaughts, the rage, for better means and measures. She could place it aside, a burning niche, a frustrated, vexed wake, a vicious howl in the back of her throat.
See? Maturing.
Her steps were light, quick, bounding, and as soon as she hit a familiar path, it was a dead run (ignoring the well of laughter, the sprigs of song suddenly ghosting into her ears from all sides) – sprinting limbs, extended and long, meant to be like a hastened sprite, a dashing nymph, a pulsing, fervent figure. Fangorn in her arms, and the rest of her a glorified, tempestuous being, her locks flames, her movements an opus to energy and fervency, until she reached the house, barging in with a loud echo of the door. “Sunjata!” Gaining her breath after her holler, she placed Fangorn down (jostled after the hasty bombardment), and began to search the confines, passing through apertures and entrances, a seething little maelstrom of her own.
and shards of glass
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
