Melita
I never had a chance to be soft
I was always bloody knuckles
I was always bloody knuckles
She waited for the echoes of silence, for it to creep around her heart and nestle there into the unknown. A delay, maybe. Procrastination of the inevitable. It meant there wouldn’t be any more broken things lined in her wake, and she could forge onward for one more day, one more hour, one more moment, without splinters and fractures careening beside her.
But then the voice coiled out of the back rooms – and her head lifted from the opening door, and she had to look him in the face, in the flesh. For half a second she wasn’t the dimmed youth; curiosity and confusion taking over her features as her gilded eyes took in the alterations: shorn head, large scar over the top of his cranium, and she blinked, stupidly, at his appearance. “What happened to you?” It came out in a rush, without the masks and pretenses, without much thought, carrying multiple meanings and gestures. Her hands nearly went to the marks, lifting partway, before sliding down to her sides. Like the stopped hug; each meeting one another halfway and not knowing which direction to maneuver towards.
“I don’t know what you’re apologizing for,” and she shook her head, the long crimson locks flickering out like flames. Her fists balled together again, clenching, unclenching, but eyes spiraling back to him. “I’m sorry for staying away. But I couldn’t-,” deal with his shit might have occupied the empty space.
But then the voice coiled out of the back rooms – and her head lifted from the opening door, and she had to look him in the face, in the flesh. For half a second she wasn’t the dimmed youth; curiosity and confusion taking over her features as her gilded eyes took in the alterations: shorn head, large scar over the top of his cranium, and she blinked, stupidly, at his appearance. “What happened to you?” It came out in a rush, without the masks and pretenses, without much thought, carrying multiple meanings and gestures. Her hands nearly went to the marks, lifting partway, before sliding down to her sides. Like the stopped hug; each meeting one another halfway and not knowing which direction to maneuver towards.
“I don’t know what you’re apologizing for,” and she shook her head, the long crimson locks flickering out like flames. Her fists balled together again, clenching, unclenching, but eyes spiraling back to him. “I’m sorry for staying away. But I couldn’t-,” deal with his shit might have occupied the empty space.
and shards of glass
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
