There are monsters.
Healthy relationships and intimacy while unlearning.
I was tucked in tenderly, but there were monsters under the bed.
Now, is there a way to connect with you, without you taking all of me?
Because love meant keeping my limbs tucked tight and my mouth shut.
Affection above, terror below.
How did it still feel like suffocation when she gave me all her oxygen?
I am a rabid hound circling my hard-won identity. An identity begging to connect. I’ll fight for my freedoms but lately I’m seeing that I’d bite my hand too.
Maybe it’s not that the animal is concerned people would take pieces of me, but that I’d offer all of me if given the chance,
just to be tucked in again.
Can I allow myself to be loved, without carving myself up?
How present can I be in each moment, so that if you can’t reciprocate I can see that as something other than a failing of mine. Something wilder that I can’t fix; yours.
It’s slow work, treading carefully.
I keep stumbling on projections and a room where you’ve checked under the bed. Familiar daydreams but dishonest.
No wonder the creature doesn’t trust me; I would harm me. The drawing of blood sobers idealising and yet my bloodied hands are always outstretched.
I’m dishevelled and dirty, I’ve had to pull up the whole foundation and figure out how to build something sturdy.
I’m trying. Be patient.
There are no instructions for how to construct homes not cages.
In the meantime,
the night light is on; I know monsters sometimes feel invisible too.
All my love, C x