Desperation
Yes I am desperate. I am desperate to be understood and to be embraced in a way that is different. Not tight, or loving, or warmth. Just different. Something like trembling hands that curl around the small of my back, afraid to touch me, afraid of breaking me. But at the same time he knows I’m not some fragile thing always kept at the back of a glass case. He knows that. I am dying to be seen. To be seen with eyes that are terrified of what they behold and hungry like a blind beast experiencing Technicolor for the first time in a lifetime. I will gladly be a feast for starved irises and hands that feel every contour, map every crevice I have to offer inside and out. I want to be felt differently. Something unlike friendly gestures and familial hugs. I want to be your object of desire and a cuddle buddy in bed. Believe me there is nothing better than being under the covers with someone’s hands holding your own, listening to each other’s heartbeats. This is my way of love. ...