I lay in bed sometimes and stare at the ceiling
For no particular reason
I’m just bored
My tv’s on, Netflix playing in the background but I’m not paying attention
I’m too preoccupied with distant thoughts
Thoughts of what I could be doing instead of just laying here
But I don’t budge
Why should I?
I’m quite comfortable
But then I get that text
He begs me to come out because he misses my lips
But I’d hate to leave my place
I’ve already made an imprint
I wouldn’t dare move now
So I don’t reply
“You’re busy, he’ll understand,” I tell myself
But as I lay there, the warmth of my bed grows cold
I’m not enough to keep it heated
The ceiling begins to cave in and my hearts grows heavy
And I feel it
He hates me
But how do I explain?
How do I tell him that I’m too afraid to leave?
That my bed is my safe space and I’m just not brave enough to leave it
How do I tell him how agonizing it is to walk through crowds of glaring eyes and mouths full of ammunition?
How do I tell him that even though he’ll be waiting at the end of the tunnel, I’m still afraid of the dark?
I can’t tell him
I keep him at a distance
I let him close enough to touch me but not close enough to touch me
I don’t mind touch, in fact, I love it
I love the feel of skin
But I hate, I hate being touched
Because I’m fragile
And my bed is bubble wrap