To be Desired - To be Alone

As I lie beneath the covers, my eyes are closed.

I picture hands.

Large, warm hands, blunted with the battles of time and life. They slide up the indented marks of my stomach, and don't stumble when the hairs of my belly part beneath them.

They are warm, strong and they hold me, for the first time, they hold me and they make me feel so comforted.

It’s dark, but I don't feel alone. Its quite, but in the silence I feel the whisper of wind against my lips.

A cool kiss.

When I open my eyes, reality falls upon me, like the dawn after a dream.

I realize that those hands are my own, and in the darkness I had clutched myself. A mockery of an embrace.

I can't tell you whether the feeling was disgust or pity, but the dream had faded and all I had left was a knowledge that I was once again alone.

Once again alone.

"I am ugly." I say, to my peers, my friends and my family. "No you're not."

Scripted responses to documented questions.

But you see, no one's ever told me I'm beautiful. No ones really touched the dark, dead places inside me that quiver with the need for warmth. Some get close, but run before my hands can grab onto them and pull them in.

"Touch me." My soul whispers, yet it seems only I can hear it. "Need me."

My loved ones try to pound it into my head every day, but how can someone who loathes their body, convince another to love theirs. They wear the masks of society, and tell me what everyone likes to hear. But the silence speaks louder, my empty bed swallows up whatever comfort they can offer.

I am too big for this small world, too overwhelmingly different to this black and white painting, its hard to find a place in a mould of perfection.

In this world of alcohol, drugs, religion and fast-moving time, I can barely find my footing. Each step takes me to new levels, yet I can never find a place for myself.

I am too big for this small little world.

The one I love speaks of his past with an air of hilarity, but I can't help but notice that every girl he's held close to him is unlike me. He wears an expression of humor when he looks at me, and I am once again alone. So beyond reach, I can only grasp the worn edges of my soul and pull the over my shoulders to ward off the icy winds of loneliness.

He makes me laugh, with a warmth and shiver which wrecks my entire body. He's not perfect, but he fits into my big world, I hold onto his smiles with the growing addiction for more.

Yet I am never within his minds eye. Silence fills our conversations, and dreams are all I have to hold when the sun sets and the moon rises.

"Touch me." My soul whispers for his, but I know he cannot hear. He is a inperfect spirit which fits perfectly in this small little world, there is simply no space for me.

I am once again alone.

As I lie beneath the covers, my eyes are closed.

I picture hands.

I picture his hands.