I’m so scared to be vulnerable.
Eyes are on me.  My lips, my voice, my flesh, my eyes.
Can he see me?
Can he see all that I’m holding back?
Does he notice the way I fake my confidence?
Thoughts create a labyrinth in my mind.
I’m terrified to admit the things that have torn me open, left me exposed and raw and questioning my memories, my honesty.
But I’ll make a start.
I always feel fat, despite the compliments.
I think I might be close to being an alcoholic.
I think I’ve been a pathological liar in the past.
I’ve cheated.
I can’t cry anymore.  Like physically, cannot.  And it’s hard and horrible.
I’ve been beaten and bruised.
I’m terrified of abandonment.
I’m terrified of repeating the past.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m just addicted to the pain and what it provides me with.
You may never know all my secrets, but I want you to.
I want someone to.
I want someone so interested in my life that when I die, they want the world to know who I am.
I want to keep them guessing, fall in love with me every single day, pray for a future, a long and happy one.
The one thing we both hold tight to us and push away simultaneously.
Sometimes I ponder why we can’t just peel off our clothes, layer by layer, and allow someone to stare at us.
Every wrinkle, every dimple, every curve, every perfect imperfection.
We fear they won’t love what they see.
Past the flesh.
Past the pain.
Past the insults and comments and self hatred.
It’s frightening to think that I might never be able to face that, to do it again.
But I want to.
And admitting it is the most vulnerable thing of all.
To me.
For me.


2 thoughts on “Vulnerable.

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