I know I may come off as too much sometimes. Too sensitive. Too reactive emotionally. Too afraid of things falling apart. However, no one sees what’s inside my head. You don’t hear the echoes of all the times I was blindsided; all the times I was left alone.
It’s a strange kind of loneliness, you know?
Lying in the dark, so quiet you can hear your heartbeat, and realizing no one’s coming.
No one will check on you or ask if you’re okay. They’ll fake it or ask just to be nosey but no one seems to notice when I disappear into yourself. Just made to feel like I wasn’t enough.
So I do the only thing I can ands that’s to hold my own hand. I curl my fingers into your palm, like I’m saving myself. This is maybe a little sad or may feel a little pathetic, but it’s mine. My touch. My comfort. My survival.
I’ve held my own hand on nights when my chest hurt so much I thought it might break. On mornings when I didn’t feel like I don’t want to get out of bed. On random afternoons when I felt like a ghost in my own life. Maybe it’s something no one talks about—how you learn to take care of yourself. How you become your own safe place when no one else offers one.
I’m not trying to be difficult. I’m trying to stand on solid ground.
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