not everything is a poem

The Honeybee

I believe in holding grudges
I'll heal in hell

Changes over the years must’ve altered multitudes, because then Melita didn’t know what to do in the wake of information and tidbits. Almost like a kindness, and she arched her brow, waiting for something else to flicker and falter, like an ember, like a coal, ready to be rekindled and incensed. But nothing so dire or outright came about it, and so she was forced to remain that subdued provocateur, confused and rattled. “Oh, good to know. Thanks.”

As for all of the echo shark remains, her eyes went back to where the dirges and pieces left of the carcass drifted downward, where scavengers could tend to the means. “Huh,” was all she could manage to say – brows furrowing before shrugging her shoulders, adjusting the portions of her own kill. “Well, see you around sometime then.” She guessed, beginning to haul and carry her armaments off, hastening her companions along. The whole situation had been a bizarre thing on both their parts – and she still wasn’t certain on where they lingered with all the precarious lines in the sand. Maybe it didn’t matter anymore.

[FIN]

Pay a little more attention to the healing power
of incandescent rage

Melita