Sand powders in my hands. Even though it can't be seen I feel the grains against my palms. Its like guilt and blood, invisible but present. I see the blood I've spilled and my guilt and sins.
The gloves are attempts to keep them away.
But I feel it, that layer, that reminder, that torture. That's why I have so many women. I taint them with my touch, so I don't keep them. Cursed among us I feel that separation between me and the others, the innocent the naive.
Meanwhile she shines.
She is a beacon in shadowed seas. The stain is on her too. Gunpowder blood and fear. Immortal fear, always present amongst the living. But death isn't bliss either. It is torture too. Cowardice at its worst. You leave and others suffer.
Like Maes made me, made his family, made us fell null and void, empty. There is no escape. impotence makes me feel like yelling until my lungs bleed maybe as proof I'm alive and no one sees, we are as blind as lambs lead to slaughter.
Worse, we wear masks we pretend to be pure, free of crime. No one is as such. Maybe escape is impossible but ignorance helps. It helps to feel her in my arms with her smells of war and hardships and femininity underneath. Watching the beauty of fire blossoms before they destroy right after jumping out of my fingers.
Maybe I will die and fear but that which I can do to keep myself sane will do, for now. Maybe happiness isn't impossible to find no matter how elusive.
Maybe. Maybe not.