There is no sleep for me again tonight. I can find no comfort to wrap myself in. And, every time my skin brushes against itself, I shudder.
It's hard to lay in this bed without the feel of flesh on flesh. Mine upon my own. My hands naturally clasp themselves. My arms fall in to hold the warmth. Legs tie themselves in knots to keep me from running towards the dreams.
But, I can't stand the search of my own skin.
On the inside, it feels like sandpaper wearing down the strength I've cultivated in these muscles. My body slowly eroding itself. The distinct discomfort of being trapped somewhere I freely walked into. Trying so desperately to crawl out of a prison I decorated myself.
On the outside, the lie of softness. The smooth warmth hiding the calculated cold of my core. The gentle lines leading to the bittersweet scars of a time when I could feel more strongly. When I could feel at all.
Because I cannot stand the touch of my own skin.
Clenching and releasing fingers from palms. Forcing arms to spread wide over the empty sheets. Banishing one leg to the cold so as not to allow the comfort of its mate. Anything to stop the torturous sensation of skin on skin.
Mine on my own.
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