Right now it is a race against time to get all the words out before the full effects of my sleeping pill kick in and the haziness sets in over my mind, taking over and pulling me into sweet oblivion, a calmness that I long for, peace, rest, sleep where I do not feel so achingly alone, so distrubingling wrong and unsettlingly calm.
I was lying there in bed with my face in the pillow wondering if I have ever managed to truly touch someone, wondering if anyone has ever truly managed to touch me, being terrified that all these years were all misses and false starts and pretenses and really I just keep coming up short.
Kept thinking I was in love and pledging my heart but really how did I know and why did I think this when I still felt empty when I was in someone\’s arms? Why do I only ever feel just right when I am away from the one I am supposed to love?
Five years ago, or no, maybe it was six, at any rate it was 1996 and I thought I was going to be with someone for the rest of my life but it turns out I was just sixteen and the way things happen when you are sixteen and codependent and very much in love with someone is you fool yourself and you want it to work. But it did not work and I have spent the past six years trying to live up to that and coming up short.
I just want to be touched again, touched deep and long, not slicing but hard, not slashing but penetrating, not resisting but bursting through every pore with the existence of your presence in my life. Touched again with the burning acknowledgement that the shared experiences of our very lives in each others presences and absences has brought.
Want to be needed again, but not so desparately. Want to be loved for me and not a projection, not what they want me to be or what they think I will or can be. Want to be wanted for more than a fuck, more than conversation, more than show and tell on a Saturday night in the right light at some dance where I am paraded in front of your friends and passed on down the line, tasted like a fine wine and coming up wanting every time.
I am starting to wonder after all these years if maybe I was not wrong from the start, if maybe my problem was not that I cared too much but that I cared too little. Not that I was too easy, but that I was too hard. Apparently I am a hard person to get to know, and most people would rather not bother. Why rise to the challenge when there are other fish in the sea? Why indeed.
My sneakers have left marks on my wall from where I was dancing earlier this evening; I had to pick the grass out of my hair and I have been sick to my stomach all day in a not entirely unpleasant way. I shake and I shiver, my lower lip quivers, I sit here and I wait for someone to touch me, but I am so afraid that if I sit here and wait that my heart will give out before it finally happens. I have put up a wall that no sneakers can dance on, and I do not know how to break this one down.
