Enigma

I live with a void in my chest from a cause I do not remember. I can’t feel it, but I do feel scar tissue surrounding it, so it must be there. I know that I’ve never wholly belonged to anyone. Not even to myself so this must be the reason. There is something inside me that cannot be touched, encased by softness that refuses. I’ve been told to be open but I can’t risk that type of exposure, which must be why the word ‘love’ never felt right on my tongue. I’ve still said it, insisting on making it work, just like how, as a child, I would force together two puzzle pieces from opposite sides of the picture. My mother would comment on my stubbornness. There have been boys who intertwined their fingers in mine and gave me butterflies that flew into the void and then were smothered. I mistitled it ‘romance’ because I craved something simple. The puzzle piece syndrome. Eighteen years of age and I got drunk on the idea that a man could stitch up the holes in me. But sobriety showed me that I am not an incomplete being. And the day I choose self-acceptance is the day that I will love fully in return. The moment I can stroke the softness of my own skin and know it like braille.

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About savannahlyn

I write to articulate what my tongue cannot
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