I Hope You Washed Your Hands

I belong to no one. All my friends are in love, and I belong to moments, intense but brief periods stranded in time. I would like to belong to someone, for someone to belong to me. I would like to have someone to call at the end of the day, and once we’ve exhausted all conversation, the sound of their steady breath over the speaker is my favorite lullaby. But there is a hindrance, a hurdle I must overcome to reach that place of bliss, of being in love. 

The process of letting someone new get to know you when they aren’t meant to stay in your life forever is like enduring a thousand mini deaths. I crave romantic intimacy but don't want temporary people touching my mind, touching my body and soul. But there is no getting to the soft hand-holding and prolonged eye contact without trial and error. The affliction between wanting a warm body by my side on Sunday mornings and never wanting anyone to feel my beating heart ever again distresses me, and I find myself stretched thin by indecision. 

Everything is a risk. Meeting someone new, especially with any preconceived romantic implications, is putting yourself at the edge of a cliff after having drunk half the bottle. It is a horror to reveal your depths to a stranger, but the scariest part is that they’re the ones who get to decide how they see you and how you exist in their mind. Letting someone cross that boundary is letting them puncture my solitude. My solitude, which I have spent months and years building, is a cozy nest that is molded to the shape of my life and fits me and only me. And that’s the thing-- I can remain bitter and unperceivable, but my yearning overpowers and ultimately, it is me who has the final say on whether or not I open the door. 

I always do. Open the door, that is. As much as I try to convince myself that I want to keep this home to myself (re: When Icarus Falls Love Again), I love to be a hostess. I welcome people in with a warm smile and a hot meal on the dinner table. I spend hours tidying, scrubbing away any dirt and flaws on the walls and floors. I spend hours primping and prepping only for dirty sneakers to track mud all over the foyer. Dust follows my guests into the house, bony elbows with minds of their own knocking over glass vases. Shards are scattered over the carpet as they take a seat at the table, no courtesy to acknowledge the home I have built. Food is shoveled into mouths, crumbs spilling onto the floor and red wine stains the white tablecloth. Loud conversations yet I can’t seem to get a single word in. This is how it feels to let someone new in. A thousand mini deaths. 

Here it is, the darkest parts of me that I can’t even face sometimes. Here is the flashlight, I hope it will help you see better. Here they are, all my secrets and mistakes. And still, sometimes they choose to say that it’s not enough. I let them pick me apart, let them dig their fingers into my flesh, and pry their way into the most intimate parts of myself; the smell of them lingers everywhere. And still, when they leave, I’m left with their fingerprints all over me, left to tend to the bruises by myself. 

And worst of all, it’s a sacrifice you must be willing to make. To expose your vulnerabilities to someone and trust that they will handle you with care; isn’t that how you’re supposed to love? Here I am in my full glory, raw and real. Please, be gentle. Isn’t that what it means to love? I can’t help but wonder if I am doing it all wrong. I question whether the love is worth all this turmoil, carving away fragments of myself and wrapping them up in a neat little bow, handing them to strangers with only the hope in my heart that they washed their hands. 

How does it feel to walk around carrying pieces of me? Does it ever get too heavy? Do you even notice? We exchanged pieces of ourselves, but somehow, the parts were never equal. Now I’m left with a gaping hole and only crumbs to fill it. Do you feel it? Does it not weigh you down? Give me my pieces back; I am so empty now.