One day she came to me and sat in my arms. I wrapped my hands around her shoulders and wished I knew how to make them lighter.
She came with tears and mumbled hysterics, about alternate universes.
"Is there a universe out there where I'm not fucked up?" I didn't answer, my silence an answer enough.
She counts the stars in the sky, the cracks in the ceiling, the threads in the tent. She asks me how many choices she had to make, how many times she chose the wrong path to end up deserted in the middle of this mess.
I gripped her shoulders, and wished I was enough. That the weight of my hands were an anchor tying her to our hallowed ground, rather than just another weight on her shoulders, adding to the pile she already carried.
Her tears baptizing the land we sat on.
