My Thoughts About Feeling You Will Never Read

You asked me to feel.
No.

You demanded that I feel.

You muttered it
over
and
over again
while you held my arms down in the dark,

forcing me to let the
tears
roll
down
my face
instead of wiping them away, hiding
the shame
invading our quiet night together.
I hate when you see me cry.

I hate more when
my heart is
ripped
open
exposed
and see me reaching out for my emotions
blindly.

You
open
my eyes
to something
terrifying
that I have not seen in years.

You
hold me
at night
while I wrestle with the demons
that prey
on those whose hearts
beat
again
with the rush of passion that accompanies thawing.

The demons
eat at
your soul too.

You recognize them.
Together we realize that together
we are stronger fighting against them than we could ever be apart.

I am beginning to
enjoy
this intense pain,
tingling through to my fingers,
a limb coming back to life,
after such a long time
lying dead
in the dark,

it is bound to be painful.

Through the pain,
I see your
eyes,
the intensity
assuring me
you see mine too.

I realize
the heat from my belly
is the spark smoldering beneath what I suddenly feel around me.