Knuckle Velvet

Nothing hurts like he does, like the way he says I love you. Prayers get said through a throttled neck, and his entrance alone is enough to start the crying again. She watches him claim he is healing while nothing in his face changes, the velvet shed from the antler torn on her teeth.

Soon his tears do the wounding, bleeding out on his sleeve, killing her any way but softly. She calls him the child he is and pays for saying it. At last the love runs out, counted in blood she never gets back, spent to save someone who tore her apart.