Is it so bad to wish you were a million miles from where you are?

          To want to be so far from everything that no part of who you are or were would matter. 

          To be free from you own self inflicted version of who you should be.

Because if I truly think about who it is that I’ve become the sadness in me would overwhelm any chance of redemption.

What I want, more than to find myself inexplicably elsewhere and finally able to try again, is romance.  Silly I know, but there it is.

I want to tingle at his touch, my heart to flutter when he says my name, and to burn with desire when he isn’t near.

That, however, is not my reality.

When his hand caresses me I feel nothing but agitation, and a slight ticklish sensation.

          His kisses upon my lips leave me with naught but an urge to wipe the wetness away.

          When I should be breathless and at the edge of my crescendo, I find myself fully aware and impatient.

I am very conscious that this makes me, at the very least, different.

So I immerse myself in books, movies, work.  Anything that allows me to not fixate on the wrong that reside within me.

So I appear normal in my want for things to be other, but my dreams betray me.

          Dreams where I awake panting with pleasure and squirming against a remembered touch.

          Where a truly interested stranger’s kiss leaves me wanting so much more.

So I wait and watch for my chance to be brave, selfish, and whole; with my fingers crossed that when that moment comes I do not falter.

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