you didn’t try to touch me, or at least touch me in the way that this title might suggest. at one point, I remember you laid your hand on the place where my hip meets my waist, because I was lying on my side and you were scared by the way I kept shaking from the nightmares gripping my mind. you told me the next morning you didn’t know if I had been asleep, awake, or cold, but I had just been scared.
I laid in your bed because I didn’t know what else to do—because that night, someone had robbed me of permission and made intimacy into a command, and I wanted to show myself that I didn’t have to be alone when somebody tried to make me feel that way.
I remember at some point grabbing that hand that lay on the place where my hip meets my waist and hugging it. I felt you hesitate—and then you realized that this title doesn’t have the connotation that it might suggest. you realized that I wasn’t cold but scared and needed to hold on to something—and you let me.
we do not speak anymore, this person whose bed I slept in one night. seeing you reminds me of how childlike I felt, and I refuse to feel that frightened anymore. I am frightened of being that frightened. but thank you, person whose bed I slept in one night, for letting me sleep in your bed without any of the connotation that had thrown me in there in the first place.
One thought on “to the person whose bed i slept in one night”
This is lovely!