to be made of sunshine is beautiful
to be the light and the warmth and to be loved
“There,” she offered, arm raised to point to a particular section, eyes glinting along lantern light hollows and halos, waiting, waiting, waiting, stilling in the silence, besides her feet shifting on occasion, as if she we always in motion, a tempest brewing under the scars along her skin. Her ministrations and thoughts on the matter of demi-gods really hadn’t even glided towards pondering if Wessex had obtained the role herself; still reeling from the latest disintegration of thrones, titles, and crowns. So the girl’s glance did snap towards the Wraith as she insisted upon being the latest, and the youth didn’t know what to say, what to do, for what felt like the fiftieth time that evening. A part of her wished she’d just stayed within her fortifications and not come out of the threshold, hadn’t known – how far, how far, how far everyone else strayed and drifted away from her, more powerful, more potent, more everything than she’d ever be.
It stung, the weird sense of melancholy, envy, and a twist and turn of being left – but maybe she’d only done it to herself.
“Congratulations,” she extended in response, after some finality, some heated moments of nothingness; presuming it was for the Voice, for the one who concocted the blight, for the one who opened portals, for the one who orchestrated so many damned things. The girl didn’t ask how or why or what she’d done to deserve the credentials; perhaps the answers had been within her speech along the temple’s meeting grounds, accredited from and for her obvious efforts. From following allegiance to a goddess who’d damned some of them. The honeybee child felt like backing away, away, away, a storm on the horizon of her teeth and tongue, incapable of voicing it without being slashed to ribbons, without being tarnished and labeled. So she was researching, delving deeper into her capabilities – the youth nodded, understanding, comprehending, but really only going through the motions as the shock clamored, clang, and rang in her ears.
It stung, the weird sense of melancholy, envy, and a twist and turn of being left – but maybe she’d only done it to herself.
“Congratulations,” she extended in response, after some finality, some heated moments of nothingness; presuming it was for the Voice, for the one who concocted the blight, for the one who opened portals, for the one who orchestrated so many damned things. The girl didn’t ask how or why or what she’d done to deserve the credentials; perhaps the answers had been within her speech along the temple’s meeting grounds, accredited from and for her obvious efforts. From following allegiance to a goddess who’d damned some of them. The honeybee child felt like backing away, away, away, a storm on the horizon of her teeth and tongue, incapable of voicing it without being slashed to ribbons, without being tarnished and labeled. So she was researching, delving deeper into her capabilities – the youth nodded, understanding, comprehending, but really only going through the motions as the shock clamored, clang, and rang in her ears.
to be made of sunshine is painful
to be too hot to touch, too far away to reach
MELITA
