This piece was inspired by a conversation on shame, particularly the shame women often feel, or are made to feel, about their bodies.
There’s this moment, when he looks at me. I live for those moments, however rare they are. In that kernel of sand in the universe of time, he sees me. Or, doesn’t see me.
When he looks at me, the second before he takes my face in his hands, before our mouths and our desire collide – when he looks at me in that moment, I am free.
I forget to worry about whether my lipstick has faded. I forget to obsess over whether my foundation is still adequately covering my hideous scars. I forget to fret about undone nails, the softness of my belly despite the occasional crunches I do, the extravagance of my thighs.
I forget to kick myself for not putting on mascara to mask my paltry eyelids. I’m not concerned about the wideness of my nose or the blotchiness of my skin. I don’t think about my unremarkable ass, my weak jawline, the unsubstantiality of my chin.
When he looks at me, he sees me. Well, not me. Not the girl who lights up when her favorite band drops a new single. Not the girl who just wants to be held. Not the dreamer of love, the empath, the girl who can lose an entire day mired in a book. He certainly doesn’t see, or tries not to see, the girl who would love every piece of him if he would just open the door the tiniest of cracks. No, he doesn’t see me.
But, he doesn’t see me. He doesn’t see scars or makeup or large thighs or blemished skin. He sees passion and lust – nothing more, nothing less.
In that moment, when he looks at me, I forget everything but the anticipation of what’s to come, his hands on my body, the delicious luxuriousness of the unfolding night.
In that moment, when he looks at me, I am free. I forget to hate myself for not being perfect.
Addict With a Pen 