It’s Not Me, It’s You

What did I do to make you not want me? Was it something I said? Something I did? Did my body change, or was it yours? Do you see me differently than you used to? I wish I could see what I look like through your eyes. But then again, it might make me not want me either. It’s lonely sleeping beside you and sensing your warmth but not actually feeling you, inside me and out. Touching you.
You’ve recoiled too many times for me not to get it, not to understand. You don’t want my hands on you. When you tell me to stop, I listen. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable even when your touch is what comforts me. It stung so badly to have your rejection spat in my face all of those times. I’m afraid to try again. But it’s just me, my love. The person you love. Or loved?
I’ve lost count of the days, weeks, months since you last held my body, naked, in your willing hands and truly wanted me. You’ve indulged me with the pleasure of you on a couple of rare occasions but I can sense that you’re not fully there with me. You don’t think I notice, but I do. Your eyes are closed. You don’t kiss me. You don’t take your time. It’s as if you’re rushing through something unbearable, anxiously awaiting the end. My nipples become raw and red as your fingers wear them down; my clit, neglected. My body moves through the motions but you offer no help. I’m alone even when we’re together. Do I repulse you?
It wasn’t always this way. At least, not in my memory. What happened? There used to be mornings when the sun would burst through the cracks in the blinds and you’d hold me close, choosing me over coffee and sticky French toast. And nights when you could hardly wait to get me home, lay me down, and carefully peel each layer away until I blossomed for you. Now you can’t wait to get yourself home and to bed, rolling away from me, barricading yourself under the billowy comfort of our down duvet. You are lost in the cloud of our bed and I can’t seem to find you. Are you there?
I miss the connection we once shared. It seems silly, almost selfish, to long for something like sex. Sex. You don’t even like me to talk about it. I’ve tried. We float through our days with a peck on the lips. No more, no less. You still tell me you love me, but I’m not sure that you’re in love with me. I feel more like roommates than… whatever this is supposed to be. Is this what a relationship is always destined to become? We move through the regularities of our daily routines but there isn’t any affection in that. It’s cold and it’s meaningless.
When we first met, I was all you could think about and you let me know it. A kiss here, an embrace there, a deep, rhythmic love. I felt wanted, desired. I felt like a woman who was comfortable in her own skin and had finally found a man who appreciated and acknowledged that. Naively, I thought I was through with anyone else. You were my person. You are my person. I’m not ashamed to admit that I have gone through my fair share of men—big, small, curved, thick—because it led me to you. My body has been craved by others in the past. I remember, however distantly, what it feels like to be chosen by someone. But now here I sit, wondering, hurting, and longing. For you. Choosing you. Do you still choose me? If I left, would you notice? Or have you already moved on? I’ve been left in the dust, the ashes of us rising all around me, blurring my vision, coating my lungs. I want to scream for you and with you, but can’t. You wouldn’t hear me even if I tried.
Each day without you feels like another crack in our foundation. What will hold us together when there’s nothing left? Is there somebody else? I wouldn’t even be angry if there was. I think it would almost be a relief to know that it’s not me.
It’s you.

ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ