I can’t open the door myself.
That’s the cold, hard reality of it, isn’t it? I no longer know how to ask for what I want. I don’t know how to say touch me or hold me or I’m drowning and I need someone to pull me out. The version of me who could ask for those things, if she ever even existed, is trapped inside one of those locked rooms in my heart. She’s been in there for five long, lonely years.
So instead, I provoke, I poke, I sneer, I snap, I gnash, and I dare this stalker to be a man and f*****g do something about it, because if he breaks through, then I didn’t have to ask.
He’ll just kick the door down himself.
I’m aware that this is not healthy. I’m using a masked intruder as some kind of psychological locksmith. Any half-decent therapist would have a field day with this.
But awa
