Galiel Constantine | 29, M | Programmer | Occitanie France | 18th August, 2021 | 04:30 am for me / 01:00 am for him

 I'm so tired of being alone. To have known men from nations away who could have been, and had been for a night, and yet we were kept from each other with a single click. I am so tired of crying alone and without knowing comfort awaits afterwards. There are no lovers waiting for me on this battlefield. It is sunrise, I am sobbing in a corner, and it feels like I might never find him again. Why does it feel so bad? Is my loneliness magnified and compounded by the love I never felt safe enough to receive? Is heartbreak emboldened and fed by the betrayal that hurt me so deep, that mere hours with men who are beautiful, kind, and cuddle worthy would make me weep into the hours of dawn when years of fighting a war with family that was never meant to be made me a wild animal backed into a corner. Nothing to lose, because I already lost faith in those who raised me. Defensive eyes darting around, wary of every morsel of affection, fearing the hooks and artillery rounds that were hidden in them in the past. Is this what numbness feels like?


To constantly live in the median of two extremes. Feeling starved of love and affection that you’re desperate for the slightest of connections, feeling so untrustworthy and ruined by those you love that you don’t believe in the possibility of voluntary love anymore. But you want to. 


It ruins you. It ruins everything. I carry the burden of every ‘what could have been’ because I imagined nights of being held safe and warm, of being allowed to cry without fear of it being used as ammo or retaliatory salvage. Every man who I allowed past my walls has left, never to return, and I still haven’t learnt my lesson. I am terrified of turning into stone. I…


People tell me that I still have time, I’ll meet him someday, I have my years ahead of me, and every time I want to tell them that I don’t want to wait anymore. I want him here and now and he can ground me. I don’t want to go through the deterioration of my being without him and I know it's wrong. It's wrong to use a person as my crutch, but damn it I want to be happy. I want to be sane, or at least an inkling of it. I want to know what it feels like to not have my walls up all the time, I want to know love again. I am so needy in wanting to be held, it is the only thing you need to do to make me yours. Hold me, promise me that you will never do anything that makes me lose my faith in you, promise me that you’ll always come back after you leave our home. Keep those promises. Keep them, and I will bake for you at sunrise, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon glazing our lives. I promise that you will never go hungry, that my arms are always open when you need and especially when you don’t. I will love you with the detonation of a million nuclear holocausts, by which I mean that our lives will radiate with our love for eternity, tinting every object and person that comes into contact. Don’t leave me. Please. Don’t leave me. 


Already I forget his face, the swell of his bicep as the back of head rests on the palm of his hand. It is a subconscious betrayal, stinging in its occurrence. Like always, I’ll push their memories back in the coming hours. I will hold them at the back of my mind, where they no longer threaten breakdowns and a quivering voice. They will become a part of my sanity, my loneliness, and my hope. A piece of my heart belongs to them. They keep me alive and I hope against insanity and probability, that I will see them again, face to face, eye to eye, and I can try being whole again. 

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