There's a tremble inside me
whenever I think of itâ
the weight of wanting,
but not knowing how to let go,
how to surrender to the touch
without drowning in the fear.
It's not the body that shakes,
but the mind,
the constant replay of past hurts,
the scars that won't fade,
the way love and lust blur into something
too dangerous to trust.
I ache to feel close,
but the thought of being seen,
truly seen,
strips me of my certainty,
leaves me raw in places
I don't want touched.
It's not you I'm afraid of,
but me.
The parts of me that are broken,
too fragile to hold another,
too fractured to be touched
without shattering all over again.
So I pull away,
wrap myself in layers of hesitation,
afraid of the intimacy that might expose
what's left of me underneath.
And in the silence,
I wish I could let go,
but I'm afraidâ
afraid of being too much,
and afraid of not being enough.