but there's chaos brewing
underneath my skin
It’s shit like this on a seasonal basis that makes Melita shake her head. The constant deluge and bombardment of trauma and drama ground down on one’s system, and she was exhausted just thinking about it, let alone living it. Friends tearing one another apart, on a series of lies and ridiculous circumstances, on trust once long-instilled and flayed, broken, wounded in a matter of impulsive moments hit a little too close to home. Her eyes gazed down at the notebook, uncertain what to do. What to say.
There were a lot of wrongs here. Rights were far less feasible to find.
The youth blinked rapidly, struggling, striving, to understand the complexities and events; killed but not, dreaming but everything tangible all at once. What Sunjata would do with his companions (and she was so shocked at the matter of Remi that those instances were disheartening – recollections of gentler times coming to the forefront) was up to him – though Melita had a few poor suggestions floating in the back of her mind. “I’m sorry that happened to you.” Because she was. She couldn’t fix it, wouldn’t, didn’t, know how; perhaps that could only be between everyone else. The embroilment, the brewing cauldron of stupefying depths, the fathoms only growing deeper.
Her eyes raised back up to his again, her fists clenched tightly over the staff, breath drawn in and out again, quickly, then slowly, as if she were trying to remember what it was like to simply ease about the world. “What did he look like last time you saw him? Any physical description? Characteristics we can go off of?”
There were a lot of wrongs here. Rights were far less feasible to find.
The youth blinked rapidly, struggling, striving, to understand the complexities and events; killed but not, dreaming but everything tangible all at once. What Sunjata would do with his companions (and she was so shocked at the matter of Remi that those instances were disheartening – recollections of gentler times coming to the forefront) was up to him – though Melita had a few poor suggestions floating in the back of her mind. “I’m sorry that happened to you.” Because she was. She couldn’t fix it, wouldn’t, didn’t, know how; perhaps that could only be between everyone else. The embroilment, the brewing cauldron of stupefying depths, the fathoms only growing deeper.
Her eyes raised back up to his again, her fists clenched tightly over the staff, breath drawn in and out again, quickly, then slowly, as if she were trying to remember what it was like to simply ease about the world. “What did he look like last time you saw him? Any physical description? Characteristics we can go off of?”
trying to hold in the storm
instead of making waves
MELITA
