I Am Not The Kind Of Girl You Fall In Love With

Thought Catalog

I have never been one to romanticize insecurity, but even still, I have always known that mine wasn’t the sexy kind. I’m not the Shy Girl behind doe eyes who, with every bat of her thick lashes, tells you to come even closer to hear her little voice. My discomfort with myself — the festering kind that we all live with to varying degrees — has always manifested like an animal pushed to the corner of its dirty cage. What I don’t like in me, I will hate ten times over in you. I will bite the hand that reaches for me in kindness, because licking my own wounds has always been better than letting someone see it long enough to put a bandage on it. Everyone deals with their strangeness differently, and some are able to transmute it into something beautiful and fragile and sweet. My jokes are the…

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I know I can be the poison in your veins, the smoke in your lungs. And all this time, I’ve been a heavy, closed box, sealed shut. A deep well, even the bucket wont reach to, that you’ve been dying to dip your toe in. You tried to be my anchor. You tried to ground me. Never realizing, it wasn’t ground I needed to be on. I’ve lived all my life, at the end of one rope or another. It’s the only way I know how to survive. I can’t hold on to happiness. I don’t know what to do with it. I have an understanding with my sadness. It lives within me, with an agreement to never let it go.
I’ve hid behind my fear, a coward in my own nature. Never realizing the courage wasn’t in the running, in letting go. It was just being. So please, appreciate the difficulty in this. Understand my lack of being. This is entirely foreign to me.

I’ve never asked anyone this, until now.

Stay.

Stay here. Stay with me. Stay. Just fucking stay.

In the night he comes to me, looking for skin, touch, raw pleasure. Looking for it all. He pours everything that is him, his words, empty promises, all of his being, into me. Leaving me full, spilling over. His hands, taking what he wants. Fingers running over the cracks in me, where the light has grown too dim to sneak through. I am shameless. breaking at his will. He kisses my mouth, silencing the scream raging inside of me. It’s 4am and I’m spent. But we aren’t done until he gets his fill. And when the night is through, he’ll silently drain from me what was previously his, until it is all gone, taking along pieces of me that crumbed the bed through the night, letting the cracks expand, filling his pockets. And each time he needs that fill, he will return, leaving me slowly disappearing into the lust stained sheets, covered in my own wasted ruins. He does this every night, until I am just a collection of skin and bones. And finally, the night will come that he doesn’t show, and I will lie in my empty bed, covered in wonder. Is it that he’s satisfied with what he’s taken, or unsatisfied with what is left of me?