These are feelings I think every woman longs for. Even the most independent, self-reliant of women. Even the woman who doesn't even know she wants it.
You see, I believe that God created women with that desire innately in their heart. In fact, since we are created in His image, it only makes sense. I'm sure a lot of you have read the book, Captivating, which goes into all of that. But I'm not here to discuss that right now; I'm only going to tell my story and how I feel because that is the way I operate-who I am. I tell my story through the lens of my experience with my feeble words.
The homeostatious of Men's attention. I've had it my entire life in a way so tangible, it feels as natural as breathing, my heart beating, a blush.
Their eyes-greedy, unfolding me like tissue paper, holding my flesh, my breasts, my skin in-between fingers making of me a gift I never offered.
My body has never belonged solely to me. I gave it away in small doses in exchange for love. A piece of my thighs, a forged grin, my belly, painting my face, uncovering my body and sharing bits & pieces in tight white dresses, jean shorts & low-cut blouses.
I learned how a laugh could invite a man to think he could come into the cocoon of my skin, how to hide myself in the floorboards & sink into the walls wherever I went to feel safe from their stares. I kept my legs crossed and my arms folded in the hopes I could be safe and alone within myself.
Now I am an inanimate object. A sexless machine. A piece of cutlery in the kitchen that no one uses. I do not know if I will ever be used to the glances that pass over me, the glances that do not exist for me anymore.
I have dated since this ordeal. I have dated a lot. With various men. Smart men. Funny men. Handsome men. Abusive men whose palm of the hand was the closest I ever truly got to them. Men who cheated, who told me I wasn't enough. Men who made me hate my sheath-skin.
In some ways, my body betraying itself has given me the opportunity to find the ones who are better than what I would've gone for before, because they aren't bothered by my tired hands-dark bruised, purple. My dangling feet, my broken smile. They see me oak tree strong. My brokenness as beauty.
I love my heart.
My courage.
My strength.
My fight.
But I am lonely.
I am afraid.
I want to be the missing piece to someone's puzzle.
Will I ever be anything to someone but a careless tourist in my own body?
