Numbness.

There are days my skin refuses everyone.

Not out of cruelty.

Out of the ancient instinct to survive myself.


A hand reaches for me, 

and something inside goes dark.

Lights out. Curtains drawn.

A quiet locking of every internal door.

Not fear. Not anger. 

Just a small, exhausted 

no.


At night,

even the idea of touch feels like trespass.

I freeze. I turn to stone.

I slip out of my body

and watch myself pretend.

Nodding. Smiling. Moving.

A ghost inside skin

that hasn't felt like home in years.


You ask what I feel.

I feel the strain of holding myself together.

I feel the echo of every moment 

my body wasn't mine.

I feel the fingerprints

of touches I never agreed to, 

still haunting the edges of my breath.


And lately,

more often than not,

I cannot be touched without disappearing.


It isn't about him.

Or him.

Or now.


There is a temple under my ribs 

where no one enters anymore.

The altar is cold.

Touch hits me 

like lightning on marble.

Loud. Blinding. Wrong.


I carry the salt of old storms, 

the echo of nights 

that carved me hollow.


There is only the weight.

Only the cold. Only the body 

I learned to guard

more than I learned to live in.




Coraline

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