MELITA
Revenge is sweet clung to the burning strands of her essence; and it will be mine an unsaid vow, one of the many oaths coined by her tongue and teeth. Her smirk was a reflection of his, deeper, unholy proclamations locked in her grasp, in the fight, in the fury, in the ferocity of her vengeful nuances and notions. But there time seemed to be nearing its end; the curse words and insidious proclamations gone, heralded, left to ruminate in her mind, to stew, to brew, until they were unleashed (and it was an exciting, exuberant sentiment, to kindle and instigate so much vitriol in more than just the swing of her staff and the glory of her fiery arrows). She tilted her head as he sought to remove his shirt, wringing out the water, surveying and examining, eyes inching over tattoos like wings – all she had were burn scars, scorch marks emblazoned across the depths of her backbone. The youth thought about asking about the navy plumage, but wisely said naught – her expression of intrigue already pressing back into his gaze. “Oh, yes please!” Because she would like to know more, more about the man who couldn’t be bothered with them, who couldn’t take responsibility for his actions, and if she was more aligned with his hate, his malice, his menace, her mother’s devotion, ardor, and sacrificial alms, or simply sputtering along in between, crossing lines and parallels too many times over.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
