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
The desert blossom had found a place to settle her roots, where the rest of the world could pass her by without worrying about getting in the way of her father's progress. Just being here was a chance enough to feel free and normal. Not a flower in a vase forgotten about in the unused guest room. The music swirled around her, as she felt her muscles gently begin to relax, her gaze lowers to the pillows she is gentled against. Her ears twitch at the sound of approaching hooves, and as she looks up, she pauses, startled by the figure breaking free of the masses.
She knew the gem-encrusted pelt easily - it was the only sort she'd seen like that after all, and even as he attempted to appear less targetted in his approach, she knew that he would have recognized her colors as well. The mischief in his tone betrayed that as he introduced himself unnecessarily. She tilted her head, the curls of her mane falling against her neck as she observes him through the mask that obscures the pattern on her face. One glance to the side and she sees her guard watching Jarek closely, ready to intervene should it be deemed necessary, "You need not pretend. My father is aware of my escapade into the markets." She replies without care, looking away from him as she stares out into the crowd.
"I am not certain why you choose me to approach, however. Certainly, my position should have made it obvious I'm not entirely desiring to be part of the crowd. I've been to only a few balls in my life, but I tend to prefer them from the outside." She watches the way the crowd moves, their steps in dance a little more formal, a little less wild. Around her, the party was in full swing, but it felt so orchestrated. "I love the music . . ." Her voice is softer this time, her muzzle in a frown, "But it always feels like those at these events are on display . . . Practiced moves, and perfect phrases. Nothing more than dolls in rehearsal." And that wasn't who her mother was. Wild, free; not a doll but a wild song, weaving through the world; and deep in Swahili's heart - she too wanted to be the wild song.
One day, she too would be one.
"Speech"
Thoughts
@Jarek
Notes:
