why do i find comfort in something
that could also scar me the most?
i hug my pillows at night,
surround myself with maybe three or four,
to find warmth in such a cold bedroom.
am i so wrong for craving
innocent intimacy?
holding hands, hugs, returning kisses, a shoulder to cry on, arms meant to envelop.
how i love to comfort those with my own warm embrace.
seeing others wipe away their pain
with a temporary period relief
leaves me satisfied.
however, i remain as cold as the bedroom.
because i fear every possibility that
hand holding turns into
kissing turns into
sex,
sex, a desire for sex
and to be viewed as nothing but
a sexual vessel that aches in protecting nothing but a big, wounded heart.
