It’s Not Me, It’s You
What did I do to make you not want me? Was it something I said? Something I did? Did my body change or was it yours? Do you see me differently than you used to? I wish I could see what I look like through your eyes. But then again, it might make me not want me either. It’s lonely sleeping beside you and sensing your warmth but not actually feeling you, inside me and out. Touching you.
You’ve recoiled too many times for me not to get it, not to understand. It’s all I can do not to give up altogether. You don’t want my hands on you. When you tell me to stop, I listen. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable even when your touch is what comforts me. Your rejection is like paper cuts and pinpricks and the ache I felt in my pointe shoes once upon a time. I’m afraid to try again; the scars of past attempts warn me to let you go. Let us go. But it’s just me, my love. The person you love.
Or loved?
I’ve lost count of the days, weeks, months since you last held my body, naked, in your willing grasp and truly wanted me. You’ve indulged me with the pleasure of you on a couple of rare occasions but I can sense that you’re not fully there with me. You don’t think I notice, but I do. Your eyes are closed. You don’t kiss me. You don’t take your time. It’s as if you’re rushing through something unbearable, anxiously awaiting the end. I’m as appetizing to you as blue cheese on Brussels sprouts, even if I’m served on the finest china. My nipples become raw and red as your grope wears them down; my clit, neglected. My hips move through the motions but you offer no help. I’m alone even when we’re together.
It wasn’t always this way. At least, not in my memory. There used to be mornings when the sun would burst through the cracks in the blinds and you’d hold me close, choosing me . . .