Melita
Eating fire is your ambition
to swallow the flame down
to swallow the flame down
“I wasn’t strong enough.” And then a shrug of her shoulders, except it bit down and tore into her lungs, into her muscles, into her bones, a promise immersing between the inward scars and the lacerations down her spine, the puckered skin where she’d tried. Gods, she’d tried. But they’d been children and her hands hadn’t been calloused enough, even when her heart was seditious and rebellious, even when every singsong part of her soul had been enameled, coated, lacquered to become a belligerent part of their hell. They’d been innocent until they couldn’t be anymore, and little Clementine had paid the price, and her mother had sacrificed herself so they could be safe, so they could be free -
And how did Melita honor those rites?
The soft lullaby haunted her again, and one palm wiped away a tear threatening, brimming, brewing, a crack in the tough veneer, in the quaking mess of her life. Strong and formidable until she wasn’t, until there were just ghosts and phantoms in the corner of her eyes, in the harsh reminders that she’d erupted into the world because she’d had no other choice. That she was supposed to be better, and seemed to fail at those promises every day too. “It’s okay,” she presided back, swallowing away the abyss so it didn’t come through her tones, Fangorn clutched tighter, the vines snaking around her arms. Maybe the words were for herself and Aurelia. If they echoed and resounded enough, perhaps they’d be true. “You don’t owe me anything.” No debts. No favors.
She could feel the other woman surging up beside her, and on some challenging provocation, the youth’s limbs extended, stride and pace bestial, blistering, as they unwound and unwound, wandered and wandered. The lava octopus tale was far better than how she’d lost everyone, and the honeybee could tuck herself into that threshold, hide into the barbarity, rather than linger in failure after failure. “We went down a particular tunnel,” one emblazoned with warnings, with signs, with all the glyphs ensuring disaster, and like moths to flames, they’d all gone into its sanction. “And there it was. Likely had come from when the volcano erupted.” Eyes ahead, but her mind had already conjured the images back – with no ability to share them, not in the threshold of the caverns. “The team used a variety of things. Eloise had her illusions. Zeph had knives. Nate had his upgrades. Sunjata had his brass knuckles. I had my ice arrows.” There was a semblance of pride in the tone, for the bizarre collaboration they’d segmented, before it had all fallen apart thereafter.
And how did Melita honor those rites?
The soft lullaby haunted her again, and one palm wiped away a tear threatening, brimming, brewing, a crack in the tough veneer, in the quaking mess of her life. Strong and formidable until she wasn’t, until there were just ghosts and phantoms in the corner of her eyes, in the harsh reminders that she’d erupted into the world because she’d had no other choice. That she was supposed to be better, and seemed to fail at those promises every day too. “It’s okay,” she presided back, swallowing away the abyss so it didn’t come through her tones, Fangorn clutched tighter, the vines snaking around her arms. Maybe the words were for herself and Aurelia. If they echoed and resounded enough, perhaps they’d be true. “You don’t owe me anything.” No debts. No favors.
She could feel the other woman surging up beside her, and on some challenging provocation, the youth’s limbs extended, stride and pace bestial, blistering, as they unwound and unwound, wandered and wandered. The lava octopus tale was far better than how she’d lost everyone, and the honeybee could tuck herself into that threshold, hide into the barbarity, rather than linger in failure after failure. “We went down a particular tunnel,” one emblazoned with warnings, with signs, with all the glyphs ensuring disaster, and like moths to flames, they’d all gone into its sanction. “And there it was. Likely had come from when the volcano erupted.” Eyes ahead, but her mind had already conjured the images back – with no ability to share them, not in the threshold of the caverns. “The team used a variety of things. Eloise had her illusions. Zeph had knives. Nate had his upgrades. Sunjata had his brass knuckles. I had my ice arrows.” There was a semblance of pride in the tone, for the bizarre collaboration they’d segmented, before it had all fallen apart thereafter.
to be lit up from within, vein by vein
to be the sun
to be the sun
