Melita
I never had a chance to be soft
I was always bloody knuckles
I was always bloody knuckles
Stockpiling for LongNight was different when the notions of her winter stead meant she’d be by herself – save for Fangorn – in the house left behind, drawn into the cliffs of Aumakua. The honeybee had contemplated tradition by way of snow moss or other filaments meant to safeguard them into silence and oblivion, as had been the methods in the Hollowed Grounds, before remembering it’d be the crackles of bonfires and parties down along the sands.
Not damnation. Not doom.
Perhaps it was difficult to shake those old habits when one had faced demons so many times before; but the youth shrugged her shoulders and made her way along the beach. For now, lined amongst the sand, she intended to snag at driftwood – dried out and waiting – for the eventual crackle of the fire, for the combustion of wandering flames and cackling comrades. Fangorn snagged at a few with his vines, grabbing at the smaller filaments and twigs, while Melita began to pluck at the gnarled, twisted bombardments, gathering them across her arms as they proceeded along dunes and dust.
Not damnation. Not doom.
Perhaps it was difficult to shake those old habits when one had faced demons so many times before; but the youth shrugged her shoulders and made her way along the beach. For now, lined amongst the sand, she intended to snag at driftwood – dried out and waiting – for the eventual crackle of the fire, for the combustion of wandering flames and cackling comrades. Fangorn snagged at a few with his vines, grabbing at the smaller filaments and twigs, while Melita began to pluck at the gnarled, twisted bombardments, gathering them across her arms as they proceeded along dunes and dust.
and shards of glass
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
