It’s the only place where I feel safe, under the
Warmth of blankets covering my bare skin. As he tries
To reach out a hand to acknowledge my presence, for me to
Acknowledge his, I curl over harder, inching farther away to the edge.
All to show that I am not okay, that I crave this space of my own.
I fight over the act versus the explanation that should exist.
My actions, or inactions, has become my only voice.
I remain silent when he prods to know if I’m okay or need anything.
I need space, more space than this tiny apartment allows.
“We don’t have to …” I mumble in reply.
“You mean you don’t want to.” He understands more than I can say.
I wish to leave this tension, this room closing in
but these covers, this tiny space, I cling to as my own.
He waits for a movement as I lay there
clinching, hoping, waiting for it to pass.
He tells me to breathe.
How can I relax when I just want to scream?