Melita
I never had a chance to be soft
I was always bloody knuckles
I was always bloody knuckles
Indeterminate lengths of blades and knives, the uncertainty waging still, impacted by Nate’s absence. And even then, Melita wondered if they should be worried, some coil of apprehension knotting its way down her spine – the alcohol apparently incapable of warring the remains of its dirges and dregs away. “Okay.” She took another swig of her drink, not downing it like the first, taking heed of edges going fuzzy and lines blurring, of ghosts cycling back over, of the charitable, cherubic laughter in the background. Audacity and boldness stirred even farther though, and her brows furrowed. “What is he doing anyway?”
Only three keys then – family clutches and grasping holds, nothing more, nothing less. She nodded and ignored the subtle spiral of the room, placing the drink down on the table, instinctively leaning on her staff to remain upright. “Let me know what you decide and I can grab what we need when I’m not sailing.” Somehow her speech still maintained coherency, though that would likely rapidly decline too – eyes sliding towards windows and the rush, the roar, of the sea.
Only three keys then – family clutches and grasping holds, nothing more, nothing less. She nodded and ignored the subtle spiral of the room, placing the drink down on the table, instinctively leaning on her staff to remain upright. “Let me know what you decide and I can grab what we need when I’m not sailing.” Somehow her speech still maintained coherency, though that would likely rapidly decline too – eyes sliding towards windows and the rush, the roar, of the sea.
and shards of glass
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
