MELITA
Some vestiges of quiet acceptance seemed to glide along his melancholic ethers; and she’d take anything at this point, the fire in her veins coursing along movements and motions, in her nod, in her brandished embers. “Either one.” It didn’t matter, not really, when they howled and harpooned, when they unleashed all those tirades and angst-riddled furies, screeches and bellows along the voids and abysses. Maybe when they were done they could wander, see where molten paths took them, the girl always eager, fervent, to do something rather than wallow and circle the drain. Then she listened while she worked, placing the shelving accordingly, taking momentary steps back to survey their distinctions, their assemblage; nothing haphazard or impulsive here, in regards to their loved ones. Houses of Laws and justice, her father maneuvering back into the myths and tales, weapons and ammunitions conspiring from his existence (and she wondered if he actually did anything about that; or it was just in title, in glory only). But it wasn’t time for her to inquire, head tilted, occasionally drawn over her shoulder to watch him, attention placed between her two tasks. Resistances, rebellions, seditious little things she wished she could’ve inspired or instigated; maybe one day, when the world twisted and turned again, Lusea the angel (she muffled a quiet laugh; because Lusea had never made that impression on her; ferocity and cinders, maybe, but never a seraphic presence), stitching, fixing. “I mean, who would trust you?” She interjected and teased, a wrinkle to her nose as she glanced away. She did. She trusted him. Eventually Lusea had as well. When the story curled and coiled away to Lusea’s father, her brow arched again. “Oh dear. Then what?”
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
