MELITA
The youth didn’t really care about the euphemisms, metaphors, or clarities woven between a namesake, or if they hovered in contradictions. Instead of rampaging forth, which she suddenly yearned to do, her jaw clenched and feathered, brows furrowing, staring down at the sand castle, rather than over at the girl. “I have talked to him. It doesn’t seem to do anything.” Nothing stopped. Nothing ceased. Nothing changed. Even when he still spoke to her now, of life and events and alterations, they were usually after the fact, and incapable of being morphed back into the shape she could readily understand. And as for the latest subject matter? It stared at her now. Her chin jutted outward again, layers of defiance for something she couldn’t fix. “It wasn’t about me.” But Melita, for all her forthright, blunt endeavors, wasn’t about to paint this child the ease in which the world had been tossed over because she now existed. Or at least, it had. Maybe Nate was over it. Maybe it was best that Ru had left, to brighter, greater things. Maybe everything had woven and eroded so far and away it was like circumstances meant very little. “Nevermind,” came on a mutter; fingers twisting back towards the opus before her.
The light mumble piercing through had her scoffing again though, another snort rounding through as she placed finishing touches: a little flag pole at the top (a stick), silhouetted by sun, dunes, and surf. “It’s not always about winning.”
This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
