She just wants love; to be loved, feel love, show love, be in love…love.
There's a fear, you see, of being left, a fear of being the one who loves too much, who hurts too much, who desires too much, who cares too much, a fear of not feeling like she is enough, a fear of giving up hope, of deceit, lies, heartache, a fear of repetitiveness and patterns—a painful path. She's insecure of her worth, of her relationships and friendships, insecure of her body, hair, voice, mind—insecure of her past that can potentially scar her future. She's been assaulted, abused, tortured, bounded by a prison, murdered by facades, chained by killers, ripped apart for spiders to eat. Her mind is an endless abyss, never stops when told. It's continuously chaotic, terror and paranoia becoming its core, preventing mutilation from curious hands and fingertips, anxiety developing at dawn. She lies awake at night, tears torturing in her eyes, blood burning her bones, aching to sleep for just a moment in time, without the constant debris. She apologizes like the air in her lungs, consistently, never desiring to intentionally hurt the innocent, or essentially become the cruel. If she had a choice in the matter, she wouldn't complicate things. She only wants to do what is best, and hates to be the one who sets standards and rules for what only her heart can take. She only wants to be understood, to be listened to; to feel as if her voice and words matter—because they never did when she cried as a child in the shower, hugging her own shoulders to comfort what they couldn't.
She's ashamed, ashamed of her discomfort, ashamed of her empathy, ashamed of her quirkiness, weirdness, darkness, mindfulness, awareness, awkwardness, nervousness, quietness, loudness—sexuality, ability, age—of her tears, breaths, sighs, whispers—fingers, toes, skin, stomach, knees, stretch marks…
Ashamed to just be.
She just wants love; to be loved, feel love, show love, be in love…love.