Melita
I never had a chance to be soft
I was always bloody knuckles
I was always bloody knuckles
Shrines and portals, and then a semblance of understanding, nothingness, followed thereafter – promises of things she wondered if he’d keep (because hadn’t she heard those uttered before?). The alcohol buzzed in her ear and she knew better than to continue escalating or skirting around the subject, leaning heavily on her staff as she waved, intending to meander and make her way down the stairs, fumbling along to her own room. Gonna keep this one? she wanted to ask, as it waned along her mouth, as it settled in behind her teeth, with a crooked, malicious edge. Perhaps she’d learned not to set it all alight, or she was merely droning and drowning along the restless ghosts shaping along her eyes. “All right.” And with a half-hearted shrug, she lingered away, down the ramparts, her information granted and knowledge extended.
{FIN}
{FIN}
and shards of glass
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
