your hands are scarred from murder

SUNJATA

the flood

with every breath and every intake
tip toe further away

Oh this isn’t at all how he expects it to go, but just like everything else he should expect it to go the opposite. His jaw clenches and he nods once, conceding. He considers his bout with Loren and how that had gone down — the scars along his side, and he looks away from her as he sighs quietly. “I’m… trying.” He says weakly, quietly, knowing it’s ridiculous of him to expect that she stand idly by and fine while the world falls around them.

Did he really want another Phoebe? Untrained enough in weaponry and fighting aside from words to worry about? No. The answer is no. And he shakes his head to himself mostly as he finally lets his gaze land back on her as she mentions that it was supposed to be a surprise. A nice one. His gaze shudders for a moment, realizing now why she hadn’t asked him to go and he exhales quietly through his nose.

Was he overreacting? Slightly? He can’t find it in him to want to keep arguing, not in the mood or mindset to keep himself from saying things that weren’t true — or were. Loose lips never did get him far in life.

So he searches her face, her gaze again. “I’m not saying that you have to tell me where you are. I just want you safe and whole.” Not like he’d been unable to protect Lusea (not once, but twice), unable to protect Peter and Adam, unable to protect his mother. His gaze shudders again as he blinks. “It’s hard for me, especially right now.” Please understand. It’s me and always will be.

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