The cold had stunned me.
It was the beginning of April, but the clouds held onto the winter chill. I watched the curtains dance in the wind, casting shadows around the bedroom. I lay on my back feeling the wind create goose pimples on my skin. It was six in the morning, and I was alone. Reaching over, I shut the bay window and pulled the down comforter over my head. Breathing slowly, my warm breath began to penetrate the cold air of my miniature fort.
I took the edges of the comforter under my legs, and wrapped myself in the warmth, cocooning my body. I craved his touch this morning, I craved the sharp blades of his facial hair resting on my neck. I craved his presence, the aura of a good man with a kind heart.I envisioned a life with him, one that I grew excited to act on. With my excitement, I noted the underlying fear that painted my aspirations. Will he get to know me?
When in love, the assumption is that you share everything with that person. Share your past, your secrets, and the feelings that you held on to. I was scared to show him what I was, and how I desperately tried to mask my past from becoming my future. He wouldn’t understand the complexities of a desperate mind, no, he couldn’t see the differentiating features that separate the sane from the mad. I was scared of him, scared that he would leave me once he saw me for what I really was.
He always complimented me throughout the day, possibly as a way for me to know that I was the top of mind. With each compliment grew a subsidiary doubt, for it is nearly impossible for me to look in a mirror and note my reflection. Noting my dead hair, patchy roots, uneven skin, and scrawny body, I find it hard to see what he does. With each day, he digs deeper into me and almost reaches the core of what I am trying to hide.