Melita
yes, yes, I am wild
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
She would’ve been pretending.
And Melita was not one for pretenses, for masks, for accepting that the way everything had unraveled was right. She didn’t have to pat him on the back and tell him his choices hadn’t encompassed and sewn fractures into the wake. She didn’t have to be amongst and amidst his friends that told him his actions were fine and well, enable him until they just kept becoming pieces of flint and shrapnel. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Refused.
When he had nothing to say about family, nothing to add at all, she took it for what it was. The final breaking apart. The echoes of hollowness in her bones. Perhaps this was the same as her father, adamantly refusing to acknowledge even the figments of things cobbled together. “I don’t know.” The answer to it all lately. “I’m glad you’re figuring it out then.” She just wasn’t going to be amidst their deluge, his intertwining of trials and tribulations any longer. The flame-haired youth could convince herself that this was fine, later, when the fires in her ribcage had dimmed. When the tears ceased. They could have their drama. They could have their head-in-the-sands peace.
Why would she want to be clustered and coiled, entangled and embedded, within it all?
His indifference, his shrugs, told her another story, another chapter, and she snagged at it with a solemn nod. “All right.” Stiff upper lip, no growls immersed, the stoking reaching a burning point; just cinders and ash. “Tell Nate I love him. Enjoy yourselves.”
And if that was all, she turned out of the doorway, before everything else collapsed down around her.
And Melita was not one for pretenses, for masks, for accepting that the way everything had unraveled was right. She didn’t have to pat him on the back and tell him his choices hadn’t encompassed and sewn fractures into the wake. She didn’t have to be amongst and amidst his friends that told him his actions were fine and well, enable him until they just kept becoming pieces of flint and shrapnel. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Refused.
When he had nothing to say about family, nothing to add at all, she took it for what it was. The final breaking apart. The echoes of hollowness in her bones. Perhaps this was the same as her father, adamantly refusing to acknowledge even the figments of things cobbled together. “I don’t know.” The answer to it all lately. “I’m glad you’re figuring it out then.” She just wasn’t going to be amidst their deluge, his intertwining of trials and tribulations any longer. The flame-haired youth could convince herself that this was fine, later, when the fires in her ribcage had dimmed. When the tears ceased. They could have their drama. They could have their head-in-the-sands peace.
Why would she want to be clustered and coiled, entangled and embedded, within it all?
His indifference, his shrugs, told her another story, another chapter, and she snagged at it with a solemn nod. “All right.” Stiff upper lip, no growls immersed, the stoking reaching a burning point; just cinders and ash. “Tell Nate I love him. Enjoy yourselves.”
And if that was all, she turned out of the doorway, before everything else collapsed down around her.
I am the ocean and the battered shore
I will be the passion of thunder, a howl of fury
I will be the passion of thunder, a howl of fury
