Melita
I never had a chance to be soft
I was always bloody knuckles
I was always bloody knuckles
Melita made no mention of her spat with Sunjata with anyone. She kept it chained in her chest, locked away in her bones, where it could chisel, burn out, or decay; either way, her features maintained their good nature, forced pretenses shaping to a emboldened smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
It was fine.
She’d help, like she always had. Even if she wasn’t worth anyone’s time.
So she made the trek, Fangorn in her arms, waving to Vai and Zeph as they bounded along – gaze settling in on the workers, and the unknown woman, arriving only to hear a name (Ray) and that she’d be willing to lend an extra hand. “I’m Melita,” the youth gestured with one hand not around her gourd, before inhaling, taking a sudden, sharpened breath, and turning towards Vai. “Where would you like me?”
Action, action, action, rather than sink into her own melancholies and furies.
It was fine.
She’d help, like she always had. Even if she wasn’t worth anyone’s time.
So she made the trek, Fangorn in her arms, waving to Vai and Zeph as they bounded along – gaze settling in on the workers, and the unknown woman, arriving only to hear a name (Ray) and that she’d be willing to lend an extra hand. “I’m Melita,” the youth gestured with one hand not around her gourd, before inhaling, taking a sudden, sharpened breath, and turning towards Vai. “Where would you like me?”
Action, action, action, rather than sink into her own melancholies and furies.
and shards of glass
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
