MELITA
It was almost embarrassing, humiliating, and shameful to hear of her father’s inabilities; there were flaws and defects embossed and embedded in each one of Sunjata’s tales, but gods, these were more pictures of the same stupefied fellow. What on earth had her mother seen in this man? The notion was nearly incomprehensible, and she winced for poor decision making at its finest; shaking her head, allowing long crimson locks to bound and bounce, pondering if any of these childish antics were forged in her too: while she searched for monsters, while she ached for survival, while she persisted and dreamed and aspired, while she swung on impulsive endeavors. “How pathetic,” the girl laughed, bright and cheery for an instant, then fumbling back to the stones, imagining they were the broad and burly Gaal, demolished and devastated by someone smaller, swifter. “I hope I’m nothing like him,” she murmured, a quiet thing she hadn’t meant to voice aloud. She must’ve held some of his distinctions, to have been recognized by Sunjata – and it made her sigh, suddenly not wishing to have anything reminding her that she shared this idiot’s blood, that she’d been brought into the world on his feral, stupefied instincts. She’d always been so different from Clementine, in looks and personalities– a rough, violent twist and turn while her twin had been gentle and compassionate, a spring song beside Melita’s summery, bestial clamors. Perhaps that had been anointed and consecrated in her flesh: the ability to be an utter fool, painted in gestures of more flaws than virtues.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
