MELITA
The thing was – they used to. Their impulsive natures and impetuous designs had gone along swimmingly for a time, and then they didn’t anymore. Between the chaotic messes, the shambles of broken shells, the pieces and puzzles of who they once were and who’d they become, Melita couldn’t figure out where she fit. Where she mattered. Where anything she did really came to fruition. Where any modicum of sense prevailed. So instead she picked away at his strands and hoped something would flicker and flare and just stoked cinders, embers, and coals instead. “I don’t think I belong anymore,” she whispered, very quietly, suddenly cracking when the little girl’s arms came around her, and that hurt too, because she was supposed to be strong and enduring and little proportions of fire to set the world ablaze.And what would a child know? The honeybee only knew how to make things worse, and it seemed to show in everything she did. In everything that shambled and contorted and flared. But her arms followed through and wrapped around the little one too – uncertain with whatever the fuck she was doing anymore. Maybe touch-starved. Maybe burdened. Maybe just so tired of anything and everything, of avoiding, of running away, of having only survival to her name. “I’m sorry,” was another hushed thing. “What are you going to tell me?”
This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
