Trust is funny. It’s reminding me of my stomach after childbirth. It LOOKS like my stomach, in that vague, if I pull on the sides and don’t breathe way. But it’s never the same. It’s the ghost of itself, the snickering afterbirth.
I feel this lately.
No, no one has ran off into the sunset with someone else or sold me to sex traffickers. But other things happened, things I’m not quite used to. Small, almost blameless offences, thoughts not of me, overlooked, stared past.
I have certain expectations in my life-that the people who love me might put me first. I have a habit of stepping back and allowing others to do as they will, allowing others their pleasures while I wait.
I’m rather tired of all that. I’m old enough now to demand that I matter first, above all else. I’m old enough to not want drama. I’m sick enough to know that drama isn’t safe.
There’s a chink in the armoured trust I’ve worn. A slight dent, and it’s letting air in. With it wanders succubi whispering “You’re a fool”…telling me I was foolish to ever trust, that everyone, each and every one of us, will absolutely destroy someone else if given the chance. Offense baby. Offense.
I still love. It’s just not as lovely or as perfect as it was before. Which makes me sad and not a little angry. Life goes on, but I could have done without all this.