Loving Myself

I hugged her. And tugged at the back of her shirt gently. She loved that. But, she kept talking about how she hadn’t been hugged in so long and about how she missed being held and loved.

I loved her. And I told her. I told her as I ran my fingers through her hair, combing it all to the right. That always relaxed her. But, she began to cry, asking me what was wrong with her, asking me why no one loved her. But, I did.

She was leaning on me dependently. I knew that if I moved she’d fall. We were meant to be one, but sometimes we just felt so separate. Sometimes it felt like we were two different people, in two different bodies.

I loved her body. I loved the way it stood strong. I loved the way it always smelled like her, like mangos and passion fruit. And as I breathed her in, I told her. I told her that she always smelled the same and that it was comforting. But, she moved away from my reach and clung to her door. She said she was waiting for the day someone would knock.

I told her that I was already here. She said I wasn’t enough, that she wasn’t enough, that we weren’t enough.

I cried. So she did too.

I walked to the door as if I was about to leave. I wanted her to stop me, to tell me she needed me, that she loved me; I wanted her to hug me. But, she didn’t. She did none of those things. And I didn’t leave.

I stopped right at the door. I made one last attempt. I told her I was really going to do it, I was really going to leave, and that would be it, she wouldn’t have me anymore. She didn’t say anything.

“I mean it!” I yelled.

She remained silent.

I stormed back to her. And I shook her.

“Say something!” I screeched.

She remained silent.

Stood still, expressionless.

“Well don’t you want to tell me you love me?” I asked while I cried.



Copyright notice:

© Zeinab Hassan Fawaz and Broken Dolls, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.


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