You sauntered in with your tools. Metaphorical spanners, screwdrivers, drills, nuts and bolts. Wielded them about with such simple prowess.

You had scarred lines running the length of your limbs, interspersed with your rippling muscles.

I love the way you doted on me.

I have lines myself, fault lines. Cutting me up, marring me. Impairing and defacing me.

My demolition does not correspond with my prosperous, fortunate life.

I am to blame for the world's ills.

Was it too much to ask that you use the tools at your disposal to mend my severed mind and recreate my missing pieces?

I suppose it was.
I ought to be the architect of my own restoration.