She reached out. Hands bleached with blood that stained her soul and her skin. Time itself had dealt wounds on her heart.
A thousand cuts, each one small, yet deep, intense and painful. Creating cuts that weep continuously. Unrepairable damage. Continual hurt and pain.
Until him, she could only self triage her bleeding heart. Placing pressure on the wounds inflicted by those she had crossed paths with in her past. The ones that would use her and then so conveniently spit her out.
Self pressure to slow the emotional flow and never letting others in close enough to help control the constant outpouring of anguish and sorrow.
Until Him. He possessed strength in his hands, but also had the innate ability to be soft and gentle enough to cradle her body as well as her heart, when she needed him most.
He possessed healing hands that gave her what she needed, when she needed it…
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