Goddamn

Goddamn, does it ever bother me that I've hurt all the people that I've hurt. Even the ones that hurt me first.

Goddamn, I was just smacked full in the face with the desire to hold someone, and be held. I've taken that comfort for granted for so long, now I pay for it. I'm trying to take comfort in the fact that people have held me, have literally dried my tears, have buried their faces in my hair, but it's hard to be satisfied with that. Without arms around me, I feel strangely naked, like a habitual seat belt wearer does when they forget to buckle up. It's such a little thing, until you don't have it anymore. Until you remember a dozen pairs of arms locked around you, their different scents (cigarettes, pot and machinery, or skin and old wood in the sun, antiseptic nothingness and fabric softener) that you still smell on an old shirt, or when you first get into the car. We need a Rent-A-Hug national chain. Guess what they do.