to be lit up from within
vein by vein
The girl had to laugh at his first statement, because she wasn’t the sort to take part in elaborate, formal parties. She wasn’t gentle, noble, or elegant; wayward, haphazard, reckless, abandoning patterns of plots for reckless, emboldened clutches. Her decadence was in vehemence and bedlam, in mayhem and chaos, in striving, desperate pangs to be stronger, to be better, to be greater. “Fancy and nice isn’t really my thing,” and she wrinkled her nose in response, the semblance of adventure, mischief, and mercurial design alight on her features. She’d rather rampage across the earth, the sea, the fire, the sands, then wander around in elegant, elaborate designations – so perhaps the poor things would go to waste in her clutches. Too precious, too beautiful, to be ruined.The second thought caused a tilt to her head, in perusal and thought, glancing at the twin pearls, creamy ivory in the embellished sun. “Maybe in a weapon then,” quieter this time, pondering over the likelihoods. The girl remembered her own then, as she continued to reach in, as softly, as gently, as she could, fingers daintily finding a small, apricot, almost pinkish hue to the pearl’s white adornments.
to be the sun
MELITA
