to be made of sunshine is beautiful
to be the light and the warmth and to be loved
The girl thought about catching and destroying monsters. She thought about the demons lurking beneath their very noses. She thought about the way the earth twisted, turned, and distorted anything and everything, made her blind to parallels, to true intentions beneath pretenses and layers. She thought about the stretch of sun across her nose and along her back, and how she’d yearned to wallow in it, instead of every other little nuance invading her mind.
So instead, she settled along one of the long boughs and branches elongated over the labyrinth wall, glancing at its extension, how it seemed to bloom and riddle itself amongst the maze without being a part of it at all. Maybe it was like her, unafraid and unassuming until it was too late, and the world would swallow it whole in time. Fangorn hissed from a thicker part of the branch as she kicked her feet back and forth, savored the apple in her hands, the crunch to her teeth, the juice trickling down her hand. Maybe Melita would just stay here for a lifetime, watching and waiting for infidels and heathens to come roaring out, seek to obliterate them before they had a chance to do the same for others. Maybe she wouldn’t; because she’d failed time and time again at orchestrating those values too. Maybe she’d be absorbed into the sky, into the loam, and no one would be the wiser, save for a little vampire gourd. The aforementioned beast gave another growl, and she rolled her eyes, tossing him the core.
So instead, she settled along one of the long boughs and branches elongated over the labyrinth wall, glancing at its extension, how it seemed to bloom and riddle itself amongst the maze without being a part of it at all. Maybe it was like her, unafraid and unassuming until it was too late, and the world would swallow it whole in time. Fangorn hissed from a thicker part of the branch as she kicked her feet back and forth, savored the apple in her hands, the crunch to her teeth, the juice trickling down her hand. Maybe Melita would just stay here for a lifetime, watching and waiting for infidels and heathens to come roaring out, seek to obliterate them before they had a chance to do the same for others. Maybe she wouldn’t; because she’d failed time and time again at orchestrating those values too. Maybe she’d be absorbed into the sky, into the loam, and no one would be the wiser, save for a little vampire gourd. The aforementioned beast gave another growl, and she rolled her eyes, tossing him the core.
to be made of sunshine is painful
to be too hot to touch, too far away to reach
MELITA
