Long-distance Bandaids

I observe him, ridged across from me. Arms crossed and shoulders hunched, pulling into himself. A sitting fetal position. His eyes are forced to me, bereft and disillusioned. I see hurt and disappointment in him. And I can not ignore my part in this endgame.

I demand a smile and he struggles with my command, shredding my heart. We have both been cut by the same blade, though I fear mine may have been poison tipped with the potential to fester over time.

Honesty is brutal when the fantasy crumbles to reveal our imperfections. Mine have been shown, glistening like fresh entrails in the sun.

Have I so easily broken our trust and can it be fixed? My doubt has surely bruised him. I can see the darkness in his eyes, hear it in his texts, feel the chill in his perfect courtesy.

The urge to rant and rage against the farmer of doubt is so strong, but I have known all along not to give his opinions weight in these matters. He knows not of what he speaks and his advice has proven tainted in the past.

Yet, here I am. Wounds need healing. Where the fuck are the bandaids?!