every time she burns to ashes
“I know,” she repeated on her tongue and in her skull; he didn’t mean it, he didn’t mean it, but it didn’t mean the echo yielded away. It still burned against her, in the scouring of her blood, in things she couldn’t change or alter about herself. Maybe she was vulnerable too, but without a disease; just everything else clattering, crashing, and combining together into a mass of heartache. She placed her chin on her folded arms, stared at the lump that was her uncle, wondering what mattered, if he’d remember any of this, if it was all for naught. Perhaps it should’ve been.
Her eyes wandered, yielded, from him, staring at open windows, the summer air rushing in, a way to ward off sickness already clustered and coiled around them. The youth didn’t know what else to do for him other than be there, or if that was even what he wanted, what he needed. Maybe she could help him drift off to sleep, a restorative slumber, something calm and easygoing, rather than the wake of all this strife, all the brutal, barbaric unknowns. “Do you want another story?”
Her eyes wandered, yielded, from him, staring at open windows, the summer air rushing in, a way to ward off sickness already clustered and coiled around them. The youth didn’t know what else to do for him other than be there, or if that was even what he wanted, what he needed. Maybe she could help him drift off to sleep, a restorative slumber, something calm and easygoing, rather than the wake of all this strife, all the brutal, barbaric unknowns. “Do you want another story?”
she knows how to rise again
Melita
