As you sit there crying, the razor having fallen from your fingers and the blood beading on your arms and thighs, he steps into your room and sits on your bed next to you, saying nothing. You cover your face with your hands, and he places your head on his shoulder and lets you cry for a while, stroking your hair to comfort you. Your sobs finally slow, and you place your hands in your lap, exhausted. He lifts your face to look into your red, watery eyes for a moment before he kisses your forehead and leaves the room to return with a damp cloth, antibiotic cream, and bandages.
He kneels next to you on the floor and takes one arm in his hands and gently dabs away the blood, kissing between each new mark on your skin, which he painted onto you in the womb. Once the blood is gone, he gently applies the cream and soft bandages to protect the healing process. As he repeats this with the other arm and both legs, tears fall from his eyes for your pain that he wishes you would let him take.
When the last strip of gauze is in place, he sits on your bed and cradles you in his arms, curling you around your healing wounds and into his love for you, and slowly rocks as you fall asleep. While you rest, he whispers his promises over and over until you awaken, once more in control of yourself, and return his embrace.
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Please keep it civil. The internet is already full of people who rail at each other over minutiae.