Pincushion

Give me a reason to love you. What do you want to say to me? You probably want to say that back to me: give me a reason to love you. 

And I don't know what to tell you. I can't think of a single reason why you should. I can feel that you're still freaked out, angry and don't trust me - if I'm honest, I don't trust you either. Don't like you much, either. You've always been a problem - since long before I knew there were problems and I resent it. I've resented and hated you for a long time, but I'll bet you resent and hate me more. I feel a mass like a danger, like a stone, like moss on the bottom right edge of my left ribcage. I feel you in there, not believing a word I say. I don't know how to get back into your good graces when we both know I still resent you, fear you, am afraid of you. Give me a reason to love you, you ask of me? Okay. For the most part I've laid my knives and sharp implements down and that's taken an extraordinary amount of work - surely that's deserving of some love? Half the time I hurt you because I feel like you want me to - we both know that's true. You behave afterward like it isn't, but we both know better. We know each other too well. We fear of our mutual nightmares and we seek the harm for the soothing it brings. 

Give me a reason to love you. Give me a reason to be kind to you. Give me a reason to trust you - give me a way off this teacup ride. Give me a reason to love you, you ask me - so filled with rage and longing. So like the inside of a flower. So like a pincushion that's too afraid to believe anything I say. So very like a pincushion, both of us.

This came out when I gave my body a voice inside Body Writers, my somatic writing and healing circle. Learn to give your body a voice here.