I never remember the nights
being this unbearably long,
this hard to get through.
I wish I could message you now,
but I can't.
And it's not because
you're off this planet,
it's because
it can never happen again.
I hate myself for crossing boundaries,
for doing something that goes against
everything I fought to protect.
All I want is someone to show they care.
And I've been worried that I would feel this way,
that I wouldn't be able to obliterate the memory.
It replays in my mind.
The way they made me flinch.
The way I pressed myself tightly
into the corner of the kitchen.
The way I made myself small.
The loud voice demanding I speak.
The fear in my replies back.
The pain of not being approached
with a gentle, helping hand.
Part of me knows I can never be reckless again,
thinking about the consequences
of where a similar action would lead me.
Part of me wishes I had done more damage.
Proven to myself it could be serious enough.
Because this time, it wasn't.
At most, I lost the remainder of the night,
my mind hazy, speech slurred,
struggling with the simplest of questions.
I wish you could save me,
time and time again.
Make a call, send a text,
agree to meet with me.
Anything.
[And I was afraid this would happen.
I was wary, but not wary enough.]
How can I ever open up again?
How can I trust someone,
who isn't able to be there for me
outside of an hour time frame?
