Method of Mancy

I imagine it would feel like finally coming home.

I imagine… if I finally gave in, if I could really give all of me, it would feel just like coming home. If I really could do it, tear myself open and allow myself to be seen–to be loved–I would finally be home.

Oh, to finally meet him there, to finally come home. 

And who hasn’t said it a million times before, but my heart is so tired of aching. It’s been drawn and quartered, it’s been pulled and pulled until every movement aches, and every little shock resonates through the bones inside. 

But when I’m with him, the touch of his skin always soothes the ache burning in mine. Time passes entirely separately from us. The sun seems to come up right after it goes down. His voice brushes across my neck and it calms my racing heart. Somehow the entire world shifts and everything becomes, simply, right. 

So I imagine it would feel like coming home.

To be loved and understood as you are. To allow the warmth of someone’s arms to embrace you. To be seen at your worst, ugliest, most fucked up and still be loved exactly as you are. To be able to give all the love in your body and then feel it poured back down on you.

I imagine it must be a near-painful relief to give in, to truly be loved… and god, to just finally, finally get to come home.