MELITA
More shelving, more ways of keeping herself busy, perpetual movement, motion, fire and recoil while he talked, while he spun a web of stories and pathways she’d never experienced – inductions and tattoos, rituals and beliefs, systems her father might’ve been immersed within too. There was only a thin layer of resentment reserved for Gaal now, mostly indifference and intolerance for his appearance once before her at all – her existence applied to his, but only just. So she limited her thoughts and notions upon him, and back to threats, back to ultimatums, back to wings on shoulders and Lusea’s hatred, beams of scattered remnants. For some reason, she couldn’t fathom the death of his mother, a sharp turn of her head over her shoulder, gilded eyes glancing from her stool, from her hammer and nails and every other weapon notched and embedded between. “I’m sorry,” because maybe there would one day be a world where mothers were allowed to raise their children without fading, without dying, so soon, so quickly, permitted to experience more than just the turn of demise. Perhaps Lusea had been regretful, remorseful too, offering her condolences, and that’s how it’d all truly began. Her expression softened, slightly, and then she narrowed her eyes again, glancing back to the wares they’d already instilled, installed. “And then what?” She whispered, pondering just how on earth they’d ever fit so many memories, so many lifetimes, so many beacons along this one wall.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
