MELITA
Oh, things frightened her – she just didn’t let them bind, tether, or collapse into her. Her world had once been endless fear and unraveled abhorrence, and the apprehension had done nothing for her; didn’t guide, didn’t provide, didn’t do anything but make her want to flee and curl into a ball, fester, wither, and decay. None of those movements would’ve saved her family. None of those motions would’ve saved herself. Audacity and boldness though, had ensured her survival, the grasp of her fingers upon branches, rocks, and boughs, the roughened exterior of her callous, monstrous roars, a howl in the midnight sky, adrift and feral, awakening the predator within: the curiosity, the wonder, the horrors. So she wasn’t even remotely bothered by the crimson flowing before her eyes, as she opened them beneath the surface, flickering amidst its depths, going down, down, down, further and further, desperate to find an answer, to spot something that would bring about clarity. But there was no crackling source of blood, no bewitching foe outmatched and dying in the falls, no overflow of ruined, barbed phantoms. She dove down to the bottom, searching for a body, for a rhyme, for a reason, and her hands reached out for rocks shining, splendor little things, collected along the interface, grabbing hold of a few before ascending back to the surface. As she broke apart the aperture, her hair stuck to her face, and she folded it back with one extended puff of air, a breathless, incandescent wonder clinging to her grin. Seiji’s laughter rang against her hears, calling out in apprehension and mirth. “It’s fine!” The youth roamed closer, watched Fangorn tip into the edge of the embankment, as if inclined to meet her, even along the crimson threshold. Her fingers clustered on the grass, breathless little extensions of air billowing around her, gilded eyes reaching towards Seiji’s. “I found some of these.” Her palms loosened the stones from her grasp, and they clustered and collected together as an assemblage of colors and stars on the ground, but none of them red. Her brow furrowed, then her head turned back to the water, to the pooling depths surrounding, polishing her in cerise and vermillion too. Maybe one day she’d be just the same: red upon red upon red, chastened and decrepit, bleeding, undone and gone.
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
