I long to feel the fragile, beautiful heartache that accompanies love again.

To crave for someone: to feel warm, comforted, and at home in their presence.

What a lovely thing, a gorgeous something that feels forever out of touch.

For when I’m touched, I feel tense.

To love feels like a dream I had long ago.

To peer into someone’s eyes and feel my heart squeeze.

To lay in the rhythm of their heartbeat and feel myself soothe into sleep.

To hold onto their every word and fight to keep something real.

To feel protective and protected.

To feel my soul attached to theirs and never feel neglected.

When I think of making love, I don’t think of the pure, synchronized dance I did with him.

I think of pain, blood, shame, and alcohol.

I see that guy’s angry, aggressive face as he towered over me.

I think of the sweat dripping on my eyes and face and the disgust I felt when I looked up at him.

I think of the rope that tied my hands behind my back while I was frozen, and he used my body for his pleasure.

I remember the chilling whispers in my ear that still make my neck crawl today.

I remember coming in and out of a blackout, feeling his hands as they pushed my head into the bed and arched my back further down.

I think about lying on my stomach in agony as he grunted in pleasure.

I remember the distaste and shame that shuddered through me as he kissed my lips.

He couldn’t wait to boast to his buddies while I was praying for permanent amnesia.

I remember pushing down the pain the next day.

The half-truth I told my doctor when I said I don’t know why it hurts so bad, the blood keeps staining my underwear.

I think about the excuses I made, believing, “it’s my fault, I’m to blame, I should’ve been more careful.”

It’s hard to believe that five years ago, I was safe and spoken for. He would’ve never let anyone touch me.

I was free but protected when he held me tight.

His lips spoke sweet melodies, and I loved to watch them sing.

I melted in his eyes every time he looked into mine.

I met him after a childhood of abuse; I lost him before abuse paid more visits.

Sometimes I wonder what my life would’ve been like if I lived in our love a little longer.

Happily married now. ❤️ with the love of my life. This was written year ago. But love found my home and has never left. Thanks for reading. Love ❤️ – MGW