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
When you grow a plant in shaded areas, the stems grow longer, desperate to reach the sun just out of reach, to open their petals to the light. But too much light can be a bad thing - bleaching out their colors, browning their leaves, and leaving them scorched and exposed. Had this desert rose been nurtured in the open sun, exposed to the elements, she would be a wild, chaotic creature of exquisite beauty - much like the mare before her. Sharp thorns masquerading behind unfurling petals of rich ambers, a sonnet on her tongue, and the devil in her eye. But instead, Swahili had been raised in the shade, always shrouded. And now, with the sun standing before her, urging her; the fear of being burnt remains.
The other mare reacts instantly when Swa retreats, neck-snapping back, eyes narrowing and Swahili bottles down the desire to wince, to make herself smaller. Her father always narrowed his eyes like that when he was judging her and finding her unfit. Had this being decided she was unfit to. Did she regret approaching? It was an instant flash of desire in the desert dancer's heart, wanting to reach out, to cling to the mare that parted the crowds as if they were under her thrall. To borrow that power, that courage, that self-confidence that had been belittled from her. But this desert rose was clipped of thorns, reshaped into a daisy as her petals were snipped into a different mold, not nearly as wild as she once was. Forced into a quiet, subdued mare who avoided igniting her father's ire.
She wondered briefly on what it must feel like to be able to freely demand from those around her. To walk through the crowds and not fear who may see her. But Swahili was no woman, she was a girl trying on her mother's dress and finding it unflattering and lacking as she stared into the mirror. This mare had approached her, but when it came down to it, Swahili preferred the shadows where she didn't have to feel on display, where she could sink into memories and just exist in the past. Out of touch of reality, out of sight of a father who would hunt her down.
But while her mannerisms were quiet, assuming it was for weakness . . . Swahili was merely a quiet girl. Her eyes instantly narrow at the aloof words, the dry retort - calling her out for not being sorry, to not apologize for protecting herself. Swahili grew up in the shadows yes, but there was a reason she escaped to room. There was a reason she preferred to exist in the shadows where she didn't have to interact with others. Where she would be unseen by her father's aggression, unnoticed by those bidding in the war for the title of her husband. "I do not apologize for protecting myself. Merely for disappoint you. She replies simply, her voice the same softness that was her defining nature.
"And I enjoy the shadows just as much as I wish to avoid the sight of my father." The dove adds quietly. She moves slowly among the shades, her gaze watching this stranger who seemed to judge if one did not conform to her wildness. "I do not like attention, I was not raised in an environment that allowed me much freedom to be social. The light burns those of us who do not enjoy the attention." The rose admits. "Some of us wilt under it, where others blossom." There's a moment of true regret in her words, wondering what it would be like, to be allowed to bloom before the fire, dancing freely with others, as she once had.
But, her quiet nature, her peaceful attitude was never weakness. Sometimes, it just required a little flint and steel to spark her back. The other goes to turn away, to leave, and Swahili shifts to stand tall, unafraid of the other's departure, unafraid to be left in the dark again, but then the mare turns back briefly, and Swahili tilts her head, before her smile is slow, but it's edges with a light, "You're mistaken, I do not dig my grave in the shadows . . . I dig the tunnel of freedom." Swahili answers simply, meeting those dagger eyes with her own stead fast. "It's always . . . startling, what is over looked for the prettier pictures. Do not assume I am a being trapped by the dark. I'm merely using it as a shroud, until the moment where the stars align, to illuminate the path." The little dove responds, her shoulders relaxing as she observes this woman who embraces the light with the edge of a knife, letting it glint for all those who watch her toy with it. "But I appreciate the concern, regardless. But you don't need to save me. I intend to save myself."
Until then, she'll happily dance with the lights off, and the memories of the past warming her heart.
"Speech"
Thoughts
@Fever
Notes: Be gentle with the little flower <3
