Like some child possessed, the beast howls in my veins
It wasn’t that she’d always been alone. The comfort, the concept, of family was wholly familiar to her; had been since the very beginning, a source of stability in her defiance. It was just after; when she’d tried, ground bitter claws into the earth and did more than wish, beg, and plead for their existences. She swung weapons and honed skills. She howled into the void and waited for it to roar back. She blistered and seethed, she bit and tore, and it still amounted to nothing.
Not strong enough. Not powerful enough. The same old song, strains, and refrains.
So the honeybee youth had become used to fending for herself, for proffering her compassion in multitudes of warmth and generosity, or peeling away into seditious splendor. It was routine, to remember she had nothing.
Then people like Sunjata kept blending into her life, and the disbelief that they remained pierced, punctured, lacerated those old scars, and primordial pieces of armor.
She wasn’t going to fall apart, not now, but she leaned into the small hug, clinging desperately to those ropes and lines like they were tethers to something else altogether. Her will? Her ambitions? Her strength? “I know,” she smiled, shaking her head, sniffling away any other ambiences.
The porch was a worthy distraction, and her eyes went to the ramphire, waiting for him to supply the wood for an suitable ramp, thinking of the daggers notched along her calves, ready for cutting and preparation.
Not strong enough. Not powerful enough. The same old song, strains, and refrains.
So the honeybee youth had become used to fending for herself, for proffering her compassion in multitudes of warmth and generosity, or peeling away into seditious splendor. It was routine, to remember she had nothing.
Then people like Sunjata kept blending into her life, and the disbelief that they remained pierced, punctured, lacerated those old scars, and primordial pieces of armor.
She wasn’t going to fall apart, not now, but she leaned into the small hug, clinging desperately to those ropes and lines like they were tethers to something else altogether. Her will? Her ambitions? Her strength? “I know,” she smiled, shaking her head, sniffling away any other ambiences.
The porch was a worthy distraction, and her eyes went to the ramphire, waiting for him to supply the wood for an suitable ramp, thinking of the daggers notched along her calves, ready for cutting and preparation.
Melita
