every time she burns to ashes
She scowled and pouted, understanding he hadn’t meant it, but the words had been there all the same. He could’ve kept the notions to himself, and then she would have never known, and the thoughts wouldn’t be spinning into her now, brutal and barbaric. A seething tempest brewed along her eyes, in between the golden slits, where naught gallant remained, bowing her head upon her knees, trying to stifle the war brewing inside her. “I would never abandon you.” Unless maybe she had; with the way she’d ventured out into the sea – adrift and ready for adventure, believing they’d be fine without her. “I would never deny your existence. That we weren’t family.”
It was the sickness; she knew that, but the words had stung deeply, and despite every ounce of her denial, the tears still began to arrive. Some of them were laden with anger, and had no outlet, no other venue, because this wasn’t the place for violence or vehemence, to prove she wasn’t a part of that wretched bloodline. Some of them were merely bits of laden sorrow, tired and exhausted and worried, all of it conforming to the residual apprehension. Hot and blinding, flowing down her cheeks in the quiet, overwhelmed and burdened and out of her own depths – to be told she was anything like the man who pretended she and her Clementine were nothing, lacerated and stabbed, tore into her ribs, flayed upon her soul. Curled behind her knees, she hid it all from him, listening as Fangorn launched down from his makeshift nest, coming over with outstretched vines, proffering comfort.
It was the sickness; she knew that, but the words had stung deeply, and despite every ounce of her denial, the tears still began to arrive. Some of them were laden with anger, and had no outlet, no other venue, because this wasn’t the place for violence or vehemence, to prove she wasn’t a part of that wretched bloodline. Some of them were merely bits of laden sorrow, tired and exhausted and worried, all of it conforming to the residual apprehension. Hot and blinding, flowing down her cheeks in the quiet, overwhelmed and burdened and out of her own depths – to be told she was anything like the man who pretended she and her Clementine were nothing, lacerated and stabbed, tore into her ribs, flayed upon her soul. Curled behind her knees, she hid it all from him, listening as Fangorn launched down from his makeshift nest, coming over with outstretched vines, proffering comfort.
she knows how to rise again
Melita
