Melita
they should have checked the ashes
of the women they burned alive
of the women they burned alive
Breaths and beats taken, shuddering from her lungs, from her chest, one by one by one, minute and tragic in the way they were compelled to be diminished. Like something might break, shatter, if she trembled too hard, if she came apart at this undeserved gentleness, at these reserved efforts, at the way they world twisted and turned in ways she’d never expect. There was an argument resting behind her teeth, instant and incredulous, as Saarrtjie first proclaimed – because Melita wasn’t precious, wasn’t valuable, was like all the other vicious, untamed things that came out of the wild: meant to survive, meant to erupt, meant to march onward with hackles raised and howls roaring out of the earth. Her sister had been the sweet, beautiful one – meant to be a jewel, a piece of compassion no one would ever see again.
But the resistance burned away on the edges of her strands, eyes widening, rounding all over again, as the second statement fell into the air, as she was released to simply stand. No disbelief. No trembling. “Dead.” If she said it, did that make it more true? Did it stamp away at her mind, conjure images of how he’d fallen to shrapnel and bitterness? Did she relish the fact? Did she yearn and crave its exactness, or did she even know what to do with it? As it burrowed and slunk into her skin, as her gaze fell to the sand, as her toes curled deeper into its warm sentiments, keeping her grounded.
Another segment gone – even if he’d been useless, absent, and a waste of time.
It didn’t hollow her away; not like she’d imagined. Instead, it just seemed to settle there, in the pockets and vessels of her damaged, wrecked heart, where nefarious reaches had plucked in and withered her vengeful aspects into nettles and thorns. “How?”
But the resistance burned away on the edges of her strands, eyes widening, rounding all over again, as the second statement fell into the air, as she was released to simply stand. No disbelief. No trembling. “Dead.” If she said it, did that make it more true? Did it stamp away at her mind, conjure images of how he’d fallen to shrapnel and bitterness? Did she relish the fact? Did she yearn and crave its exactness, or did she even know what to do with it? As it burrowed and slunk into her skin, as her gaze fell to the sand, as her toes curled deeper into its warm sentiments, keeping her grounded.
Another segment gone – even if he’d been useless, absent, and a waste of time.
It didn’t hollow her away; not like she’d imagined. Instead, it just seemed to settle there, in the pockets and vessels of her damaged, wrecked heart, where nefarious reaches had plucked in and withered her vengeful aspects into nettles and thorns. “How?”
because it takes a single wild ember
to bring a whole wildfire to life
to bring a whole wildfire to life
