Melita
I never had a chance to be soft
I was always bloody knuckles
I was always bloody knuckles
Melita picked at a strand along the seam of her bag, listening all the while to the brief description of the Hollowed Grounds – apt, and to the point. There’d been times where the world had been clambering with color – like Fiat Lux – but sadly burdened and destroyed in other moments, as if good things couldn’t last. Or maybe they weren’t savored enough. She wasn’t certain. The other lines he mentioned were far more appealing to her curiosity though. “Are they kicking you out?” Her head tilted while she opened her satchel, pulling out some wooden pieces, foundations of lanterns.
The other explanation plucked at the back of her mind, down the chiseling of her spine, and she found that the dread and apprehension were age-old, familiar, forthright, when it came to these kinds of discussions. With a knot in her chest and a barb in her throat, she quietly yielded to the harsh realities. “Landsharks? An artist? It wasn’t Bastien, was it?” Because something in her couldn’t quite fathom how that man – who’d once held his own damned funeral – could be gone. Maybe it was someone else. An apprentice of the kind, suave, maestro – something like that.
The other explanation plucked at the back of her mind, down the chiseling of her spine, and she found that the dread and apprehension were age-old, familiar, forthright, when it came to these kinds of discussions. With a knot in her chest and a barb in her throat, she quietly yielded to the harsh realities. “Landsharks? An artist? It wasn’t Bastien, was it?” Because something in her couldn’t quite fathom how that man – who’d once held his own damned funeral – could be gone. Maybe it was someone else. An apprentice of the kind, suave, maestro – something like that.
and shards of glass
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
