you come to me in dreams, your hands all stained in my blood. i don't know what to do with that... imagery. i don't know what i'm trying to tell myself.
"you won't need that looked at?" ⠀ he nods up towards temple, ⠀ the smear of red. ⠀ NOT PITY; ⠀ ⠀ NOT GRACE. ⠀ ⠀ there are none like him. ⠀ simple as.⠀ "not that i'm qualified."
riley slinks back; ⠀ as though violence could be so inf͟e͟ctious. ⠀ copper tang of it burns in his throat, ⠀ thick and viscous. ⠀ blood–shot eyes track splatter, ⠀ from wrist, ⠀ to cheek, ⠀ unto temple, ⠀ every sweep its own singe on the soul,
(sword of michael that carves out the sight of the blasphemer.) ⠀ unease is a discomforting, ⠀ coiling thing. ⠀ lights the nerves in his spine, ⠀ half an arm distance kept, ⠀ riley forces it back tight to his chest. ⠀ 𝓉ears clump in his lash–line. ⠀ [ IT BURNS. ⠀ ]
"is that..?" ⠀ self cut–off, ⠀ alarm swallowed by confirmation, ⠀ carmine sweeping @sacrpints' silhouette. ⠀ the sheer wrongn͟e͟ss of it leaves human eyes aching; ⠀ downcast and salt–lined. ⠀ "how much of that is yours?"
"me an' the pavement — ⠀ just gettin' reacquainted with ourselves." ⠀ half–truth,⠀ there.⠀ but still, ⠀ he leans in for inspection, ⠀ offering a viewing of skin weeping. ⠀ lips tug, ⠀ a wince through the sting, ⠀ "it'll fix itself. ⠀ should, ⠀ i think.
“ you say that like you’re not gettin’ blood all over the damn floor, ” james mutters, reaching a hand up to the gash. she doesn’t touch it, but the desire to fix is there. inspecting visually,