Beggin For Thread

“So I got edges that scratch

And sometimes I don’t got a filter

But I’m so tired of eating

All of my misspoken words

I know my disposition gets confusing

My disproportionate reactions fuse with my eager state

That’s why you wanna come out and play with me, yeah

Why?”

I’ve never been a cuddler, but when he holds me I feel safe.  And if only for a few moments, I’m able to forget about everything that hurts inside. 

I couldn’t remember what it felt like to be touched gently, but when his fingers trace my face, the tenderness wakes me from the emotionless state I’ve been floating in. 

I had forgotten what it felt like to be kissed, but when he kisses me, little sparks go off behind my eyes and I can’t help but return the gesture. 

That feeling of actually feeling again scares me, but the deepness of his blue eyes wrap me in a warmth that I find too soothing to ignore. 

He tells me that I am beautiful and triggers something inside of me that fills me with fear. 

That feeling of feeling something other than grief, or anger, or hate, is so foreign to me, that I almost can’t process it. 

I try to remind myself that men like him don’t really exist and not to let him trick me in to believing differently, but he makes me feel safe again, and I can’t help but want to be near him.

I think about my husband and how he had slowly rid me of my identity.  I think about how he had given me the nickname “ringworm” as a joke, but with it, stripped me of my confidence and femininity.  

He gave me the nickname of a fucking bacteria and laughed at me when I complained about it.

I think about him admitting to me that yeah, he did treat me like shit, but only because he had to in order to keep my attention.  Because I was so selfish, I couldn’t give him what he needed unless he demanded it.

Taking care of my granddad while his mind and body slowly deteriorated or helping my father when my step mother was too sick to move, those things had caused him anger because he didn’t like sharing me.  

I belonged to him. 

I was his wife. 

I try to pull away and rid myself of the yearning I have to touch him, but I can’t. 

The magnetic pull he has on me feels warm, and safe, and impossible to resist. 

That feeling of feeling again, holds me there in a trance-like state, and if only for a moment, relieves me of the sensation I’ve had of falling into that black abyss that has been pulling at me for months. My fear of the future plagues me, but living in these moment scares me just as much, cueing my anxiety to creep in for a gross embrace, serving as a reminder that I’m still lost.

I push him away and throw invisible daggers in his direction.  I wave the metaphoric red flag in his face and tell him to turn back now, but he ignores my warnings.  Eventually he will have no other choice but to open his eyes to the truth.  He will find out that I’m not that beautiful underneath my shell anymore.  Not after everything that’s happened.  He will see the ugly truth of what trauma has done to me and the person it has turned me into.  When he finds out that I’m not that confident, strong woman I used to be… When he finds out that I’m just the shell of a small insecure and insignificant piece of what’s left of the old me, he will understand that he is better off walking away.  And that feeling of feeling again, will go back to that feeling of feeling nothing- back to that unconscious state of floating through life on the surface, never diving in deep enough to get hurt. Back to that solitary way of living that I’ve been conditioned to accept.  And the saddest part about it all, is that when that happens, and it will, I will find comfort in knowing it’s the safest place for me.  Because it’s a lot easier to be alone than it is to be lonely.