I am six years old walking home from school and when I got home, I needed you to pull me in so tight.
I am seven and I’m sorry I ran ahead and left you behind, causing your little six year old body to crash and burn on picture day.
I am ten, so sad, in the car. We are in the neighborhood minutes from home and what I needed to hear was, “I love you.”
I am sitting in my bedroom closet, door closed, hiding under a blanket, tears pooling in my hands. Softly, quietly, sobbing.
I am 12,13,14,15,16,17 wishing my body didn’t have anyone else’s hands on it, ever.
I am 34, needing those hugs and I love yous and it’s okays and validation and safety to cry.
I am 34, and despite crying so much in the past year and a half, it feels more real now. It feels like I’m holding in the ocean, and I’m going to break. It feels like acid is finding its way through every cell in my body and I have to get it out now.
It feels like death and life all at once and I need a hand and a hug and a human to help before it breaks.