Melita
I never had a chance to be soft
I was always bloody knuckles
I was always bloody knuckles
Melita listened, hands still wrapped around her knees, pondering over the exchange. She’d never hidden anything about herself – not really – her facial expressions, and motives, often an open book. The violence and vehemence worn along her skin. The mischief paraded and loomed. The exuberance, wild and candid and untamed. She loved her weapons too. She’d met good people. “I see,” she laughed; because such a statement barely held a candle to all those other nuances and experiences – but she did. She understood.
With the discs cooled, she took hers by the hand and glanced over the hues already dazzling. Mildly impressed with her efforts, she began to do the same as Darkeye, watching his ministrations from the corner of her eye, and following through on grinding it to a smoother sheen.
With the discs cooled, she took hers by the hand and glanced over the hues already dazzling. Mildly impressed with her efforts, she began to do the same as Darkeye, watching his ministrations from the corner of her eye, and following through on grinding it to a smoother sheen.
and shards of glass
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
