MELITA
She’d snarl for him, if he let her, echo all the brash, irritated sentiments out into the void, as she’d always done, even if it didn’t really matter in the end. The snarling, snagging threads of wrath and contempt were always there to swarm and defy, to pitch together some mangled knot and noose of vile, vile hatred, to harpoon it where someone else could feel pain and torment too. But he remained quiet, dissolute, and she wanted to spurn and spin and fume; considered pounding her fist into the walls and leaving their marks embedded into the fresh surface, into the wood, splintered under her skin. They could be stigmas of their wounds too, little shards with words written underneath to absorb and detail the pain – but she withheld, teeth muddled and mouth closed, jaw lanced so tight it was obvious she was fighting down a torrential spray of malice and heartache. Her eyes focused on his for a moment, too much fire, too much brimstone, too many embers collected in their sets – his just steel, like fortified contortions, and gods, she didn’t understand.
But he approved, and she gave no smile in return, going straight back to the rulers and chalk, drawing lines, designating areas, where memories and mourning contortions were supposed to go, and she didn’t know what to say or what to do to make it any better. She couldn’t. She never had. Once, her gaze ghosted back to the lantern, on what it was supposed to represent, and then the youth turned away once more, brows furrowed in concentration.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
