your hands are scarred from murder

SUNJATA

the flood

with every breath and every intake
tip toe further away

And there it is. “I know.” He admits quietly, leaning down a small amount to ease the burden of their height difference. “I don’t… I don’t expect you to be unscathed. But you just came home looking as though you’ve been through hell, didn’t even look for me when you got here.” He finally manages to say, sighing quietly before he steps away from her again to pull back the curtain from the shower before the hot water runs out.

“I know that I’m overreacting.” He also admits, focusing on the stream of water as it leaves the shower head, testing it with his hands before fiddling with the temperature again. Wearily, he turns his head to look back at her. “So how can I help?” An effort, an attempt to try and not be a cage just as he had asked her not to be.

Internally, he wars with himself on it all, trying not to pick a fight and failing regardless. Wanting nothing more than to hold her and prove to himself that she’s okay, that she’s whole, but he can’t — not with how she flinched from his touch earlier, not with how his hands are too big and his dexterity with them hadn’t been great aside from writing.

further away from this mistake
i'm no savior, i'm no saint