I start off every night holding my pillow. I clutch it so
tightly, like if I give even a little, if I let go, then all
these emotions I'm holding in will just let loose and I won't
ever get them back. It's silly, I know. My pillow isn't him,
and won't ever be, and I'll never hold him so tightly in my
arms like that. I'm cursed with permanent haptephobia -- fear
of contact. Isolated.
Isolated, like some kind of human island. Dear God, I'm so
alone! And I know he's there -- it isn't that he doesn't care.
Or anyone else, for that matter. They're all there,
and they take pity on this poor tortured sould. I'm as human
as they are -- I don't need pity. I don't need to be cried
over. I can take care of myself.
Most of the time. I think.
I swallow, laying there in my bed, and try to blink back
tears that inevitably form in the darkness of my room. This
awful emotion -- lonliness -- tears open some kind of rift
in my heart -- a greater divide than I thought I could ever
even imagine -- and I need to know that he's really
there. If I could just reach out and --
-- and -- and sense that he was there, like some kind of
telepath searching for a psi-signature. No -- no, I'm no telepath.
That's not -- that's not who I am. And I'm hardly normal.
Life would be so much easier if I were just normal! But my
whole existence has been like some kind of sick cosmic joke.
And I'm not laughing.
It's late. Too late. And I can't sleep. I'm still holding
my pillow, and it's getting wet. I wrap myself around it,
wishing it was him, praying that I could only feel his arms
around me, too. Tight -- tighter -- tighter --
Love is a curious thing. I want to believe I love him, but
it's hard because he's gone. Would I still think these thoughts
if he were here? Would he still carve his presence into my
heart to the point where it ached as badly as it does now?
Sometimes I think I wouldn't know love if it slapped me in
the face. But I still want it -- I still want him here --
I still want to be loved. It's such an elusive emotion, ready
to bring both joy and pain. Now it hurts more than ever.
And I know it wouldn't be any different if he were actually
here. This lonliness would still cut my heart up -- even if
he were to stand before me, surprising me with his long-awaited
return, I would remain this terrible, terrible suffering island,
with no means of expressing all I feel. And God knows I feel
so much -- I've bottled everything up over the last year,
and I can't take it anymore.
I want to be able to fall asleep, but these thoughts keep
spinning in my head and won't let go. It's probably for the
better -- sleep brings dreams. I know they're just dreams.
There's no truth to them, they're only a way of manifesting
my unconscious fears. I don't want to hurt anyone. I never
wanted to hurt anyone. But I have hurt people. And I know
I'll continue to hurt people, much as I want it all to stop.
I put up barriers -- physically and emotionally -- to keep
other people out, because I don't want to hurt them. And I
hear his voice ringing in my head, as though he might be speaking
to me, truly here -- "All you do is lock yourself in
-- it don' keep no one out." And I know he's right, much
as I hate to admit it. I don't want to admit it. I'm so scared.
I wish my pillow were warm and soft like flesh. I wish it
would melt into skin and muscle and bone beneath my hands
-- but my hands only bring pain. Loss. Death. I'm destructive.
I don't leave anything. I want to die.
But I don't want to die alone. And this part of me -- yes,
it's a part of me as much as anything else -- this part of
me won't allow anything but this terrible lonliness.
I don't want to fall asleep. I worry what images might fill
my head and plague my psyche as I innocently sleep -- no,
not innocently. I'm so far from innocent. But this guilt is
hardly mine -- much as I should accept it as my own. I don't
know anymore. Life got so confusing so fast.
I need to feel your touch.
I don't want to hurt you.
Every morning my pillow winds up on the floor.
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