Just A Touch?

In recent months I’ve found myself increasingly unable to ignore the way it’s not just my body that yearns for contact, it’s my spirit that aches for warmth and intimacy.

I’m not talking about sex, right now it’s the last thing I want, I’m talking about simple, innocent affection.

A quiet touch that says I’m not alone, that there’s something keeping me from falling into old habits born of fear and isolation.

I spend so much time reaching out, baring my vulnerability and trying to ask for something that means less when it’s anything but freely offered.

Why is it that there’s no-one reaching back?

Did I build my walls so high that they can’t see me on my knees?

Are they too thick for anyone to hear me calling, begging for someone to just take my hand?

Last night, at the end of a spectacularly awful day, I dropped some molly and just came right out and asked R if I could curl up against him.

It was nice, to share warmth and space without expectations or obligations or the fear that if I fall asleep, the hand resting on my shoulder will have found it’s way to my ass… on the inside of my panties.
You’d be amazed how many times that’s happened, or perhaps not, perhaps you’re nodding like you’ve been there a time or more yourself.

It was comfortably platonic and casually comforting and I woke up this morning feeling more settled than I have in a long time.

Or at least I was feeling content right up until he got up and I realised just how open I’d been, and my shell snapped back into place around me.

As far as I’ve come in learning to identify and accept my needs, I’m still desperately afraid of them and even more so of the way I can’t quite meet them alone.

I don’t ever want to be dependent on another person and yet here I am, alone and just as afraid to stay that way as I am to let anyone in.

I don’t know what I’m doing and I don’t know what I want, all I know is that what I have isn’t enough…

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