a testament to vulnerability

There are days when you wish you hadn’t bothered to wake up at all. Days when the bedsheets smell so comforting and you don’t need the telly, you don’t need anything to distract you from the badly painted ceiling and the fading daylight casting animal-like shadows over your tighs. The vacuum of smelling the pillows and imagining that kissing them would make him reappear. Would make you not hate yourself, would make you not turning your back on him because you can’t stand having him this close, can’t stand anybody touching you in that way and still there is nothing you yearn for more than for someone to run their hands over your body, someone to desire you, someone who’ll just hug you and hold you close, tell you that you are okay, that things will be okay. And eventually you need to get up, get dressed, get drunk, and hopefully, by the time night falls, or some time before the sun rises again, you will fall asleep on top of your duvet, still wearing all your clothes even if they’re wet from the rain, leaving them to dry over night but when you wake up they will still be all damp and sweaty.