Melita
Eating fire is your ambition
to swallow the flame down
to swallow the flame down
Some portion of her was glad to see him shirking in her presence, not looming closer; her flares and infernos gathered and righted and just, dangerous, treacherous, exactly as she’d always been below the compassion. The beneficence and kindness was gone now though, replaced by battle cries and wildfires, the fervent gales, the hungry coals. Her anger was for Nate, who hadn’t been given any choice but to accept this gaping hellhole or leave everything behind. Her anger was for everyone else who believed in Sunjata, who thought him good in his efforts, who thought him beyond playing with matches and seeing what he could set alight – when he simply seemed to pour incendiary devices over his entire life. Melita would’ve forgiven him for the multitudes before, but this was done by his own hand. He’d held the knife, the dagger, and wielded into others’ before embedding it into his chest.
War. She wasn’t worried about that one, in the distant future, when they’d all be consumed in some way shape or form. Her concern rested in this moment, in this skirmish, in this duel of impulsivity and emboldened natures, where hers would tower and soar over his mask and his shame. “Aren’t you ever tired of this?” Forging his way on the most bewildering, stupefying paths? On the hardest ones possible?
The honeybee didn’t care if she hurt the Flood. He’d hurt her countless times before. He’d hurt so many others on his march of astounding, dumbfounding depths. Where he sunk and strangled, where he tethered and moored.
And to think, she’d been proud of him for finally putting an end to his father.
There was no pride for him currently – not in her pinpricked gaze, not in her seething temper, in her voracious indignation. His responses didn’t quench the flames either, rising and eating away at the corrosion, at the blinding ridiculousness of it all. “No shit. Maybe you should’ve started a little sooner.” Before everyone else got pulled into his vortex of delusions and selfishness.
And she wasn’t going to help him on this either. She wasn’t going to try to ease the burden on his shoulders. She wasn’t going to offer any words other than this damned storm.
The youth stepped off her stump, staff in hand, thinking to lunge towards him, very nearly reaching out and thrashing; but instead, she evaded him entirely, continuing her stomp, her walk, her outrage, into the midst of the fronds and ferns.
War. She wasn’t worried about that one, in the distant future, when they’d all be consumed in some way shape or form. Her concern rested in this moment, in this skirmish, in this duel of impulsivity and emboldened natures, where hers would tower and soar over his mask and his shame. “Aren’t you ever tired of this?” Forging his way on the most bewildering, stupefying paths? On the hardest ones possible?
The honeybee didn’t care if she hurt the Flood. He’d hurt her countless times before. He’d hurt so many others on his march of astounding, dumbfounding depths. Where he sunk and strangled, where he tethered and moored.
And to think, she’d been proud of him for finally putting an end to his father.
There was no pride for him currently – not in her pinpricked gaze, not in her seething temper, in her voracious indignation. His responses didn’t quench the flames either, rising and eating away at the corrosion, at the blinding ridiculousness of it all. “No shit. Maybe you should’ve started a little sooner.” Before everyone else got pulled into his vortex of delusions and selfishness.
And she wasn’t going to help him on this either. She wasn’t going to try to ease the burden on his shoulders. She wasn’t going to offer any words other than this damned storm.
The youth stepped off her stump, staff in hand, thinking to lunge towards him, very nearly reaching out and thrashing; but instead, she evaded him entirely, continuing her stomp, her walk, her outrage, into the midst of the fronds and ferns.
to be lit up from within, vein by vein
to be the sun
to be the sun
