s w a h i l i
take a drunk girl home
let her sleep all alone
leave her keys on the counter
your number by the phone
pick up her life she threw on the floor
Like any blossom forced to bloom beneath the darkness, the shade of something perceived as better, the desert rose had grown to find her freedoms in the shadows. Dancing where no one was watching, avoiding the eyes that may show up, during the event. One look at her speckled pelt, and her father would recognize her, even from a distance. Even just the inkling idea that she was in attendance would see her sisters running to tattle. The unwanted was here, the undesireable is present. The forgotten blossom in a decaying garden of ugly personalities and uglier hearts was daring to reach for the sun. Swahili knew her safety was in shrouding. The khaki shawl draped around her ever so lovingly, the darkness of the shadows that embraced her steps, as the gypsy's daughter closed her eyes. Each movement came with the tender embrace of her fondest memories. The embrace of those from her past she knew she was unlikely to ever see again. Like dandelions in the wind, gypsies go where their hearts guide them. She'd been plucked from the sky and planted so deep, the soil held her with invisible bonds.
Slavery was easy to spot on some, in the form of brandings, or piercings to dictate a lesser. In the way one may dress or present themselves. But there was also the silent slavery - the type that held Swahili trapped to her rooms in the manor. A slave to her father's anger, a slave to her father's cruel dismissal, and any day now, a slave to her father's decisions about her future. She had rules to abide by, places she could go, a list of individuals allowed to see her. Otherwise, she felt more trapped at times than the caged bird. Her feather's clipped as she was presented and paraded like an animal at an auction. Isn't my daughter lovely. She's so quiet and demure. We've kept her isolated from the world. untouched, and innocent. She read enough books behind the gilded walls of her cage, to know that he wasn't praising her, he was dressing her up before the sale. He was drawing attention to ensure the wolves come clawing at the door, eager to tear into her flesh and claim her for their own.
Her hooves miss a step, and she slows; trying to chase those thoughts away. She'd escaped tonight to ignore what was to come. To ignore her future under the hoof of another man, a wedding band shackling her like a collar, further trapping her from the freedom, the wild abandon her heart edged her towards. If she turned, and just ran today, while others would be distracted by this event, how long before her father noticed. How long before he'd come to collect her. Would he strike her? Would he sell her off even faster. Fear kept her in place, kept her returning to her prison. How she ached for those days of old, dancing around campfires, the youthful voices of gypsies chanting in song, as bells are braided into her hair and her grandmother praises her as she masters another dance.
Sound catches her attention, and the desert flower turns, gaze settling on a being approaching her. A saunter to her steps, so unafraid, so wild, so carefree. She sways with an edge that grabs attention far more than the chiming of her steps, but Swahili's blood runs cold as eyes follow this beast that approaches her. Instantly the flower wilts, stepping further into the shadows, pelt muddied, and unrecognizable beneath the darkness of the tent, and even as this being, shining like metal in the sun, head held high, eyes beckoning with an open invitation, the wilted flower clearly hesitates. She's not victim to tantalizing words, to sexualized motions, too young; more importantly too inexperienced to see this temptress as anything more than a friendly dancer. Friendly or not, there is a chill down her spine that she cannot shake. Too many eyes. The wrong eyes could see her. Could recognize the ivory marking upon her brow, the shades of her tresses, the quiver of her limbs. "I shouldn't." The voice is soft, cautious, even as emerald orbs stare out from golden rimmed eyes, long lashes blinking up slowly, "If I am seen in attendance, it would be . . . an unfortunate occurance." The dove admits, unabashed about the situation she is in.
She's known for a long time now, that not all parents love their children; and not all parents keep them close to home out of that parental care. She was trapped under her father's expanse of power, a wealthy man with reaches into every court from his perfume industry. And she would forever be the unwanted mistake that was no more useful to him than a pawn on a chess board. Sacrificial during his climb to power. "I'm sorry."
"Speech"
Thoughts
@Fever
Notes: Be gentle with the little flower <3
