love. ‎ ‎what a beautiful word of pain. a burning pain that filled his lungs as the sea water that was cutting him open, unpacking his organs, stacking them in a row on a table, his flesh flapped to either his side. initials sewn into each of hem, then tossing them back into him like a snotted handkerchief. ‎ ‎he had given. offered. bared himself for the woman he loved. but it would never be enough, does it? they wanted to take his bones as well—called him selfish for keeping them. shot him for it— he must have done terribly wrong somewhere a long time ago that he's living the wrong life he was supposed to have now. ‎ ‎those lips that laughed at his suffering. those leering dark eyes, those eyes that gazed at him with affection. their hands that mocked and broke others and their hands that held it. their very soul that'd rejoiced in every moment. he wants that away. he wants that to fade. he wants to be there and watch it die being crushed under his shoe until they're just a smear. ‎ ‎that's how far he's planning to go. ‎ ‎but he met you. saved him from sinking deeper. reached out a hand and pulled him to the surface and had brought his breath back, him back to the light— and staring at you now, standing in the small kitchen of your quaint simple home near the shore, watching you stir the hot pot of soup, he wonders—did you help him out of kindness or are you just like the rest of them?