Melita
I never had a chance to be soft
I was always bloody knuckles
I was always bloody knuckles
Melita wanted to murmur something about being uncertain even before about peace and serenity; they’d had it in little pockets of tranquility, and hadn’t known, hadn’t understood, until it was entirely too late. Now things pushed in further, quickening the pace. Some numbed proportions pushed over her, and her fingers felt cold, hands going towards the first base of the lantern pieces, toying with them while she thought. “Oh, for Rexanna?” Her eyes got a little misty then, and a sudden sigh swept over her. “She was very lovely too. They made a great pair.” And she smiled, even though it was difficult, because she knew neither of them would want a crying, sobbing fit over their efforts.
Drama and showmanship and pageantry, yes.
“We’ll need lots of color, I think.” And she rustled through her bag, trying to find the sap residue to begin sticking proportions together.
Drama and showmanship and pageantry, yes.
“We’ll need lots of color, I think.” And she rustled through her bag, trying to find the sap residue to begin sticking proportions together.
and shards of glass
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
