I should have had it so much worse. I should have died, not you. It was my fight; my fault.

She fingers the white, gnarled tissue. It's a constant reminder of what happened, both good and bad.

"I know, I just... It's not... what I wanted."

No, that came out backwards.

(It's not what you wanted.)

((Do you still want me?))


"It won't go away."


I made mistakes I can't ever make up for. Blood on my hands I can't ever scrub clean. You haven't touched me yet. I'm not sure if I want you to. Am I still desirable?