A Hug

The first time you asked for a hug I flinched.
It was because of you.
But it was not.
It was all about me.
My head was playing a horror movie.
I could see it. See it so clearly that your figure was hazy at first.
I imagined a razor. One of those old fashioned knife razors. The type of a razor used by a barber.
Big. Sharp. Efficient.
This razor was not a weapon.
This razor was a piece of salvation.
This razor was used to peel it all away.
You see, in my mind, I was trapped.
I was suffocating.
My skin was a cage and I the animal.
It was the prison and I the convict.
It was a balloon and I the helium.
My skin was a dress that was too tight.
I needed that razor, like siscors, to cut me out.
So yes.
When you came over to give me a hug I flinched.
Because the only good thing I could imagine was a razor cutting me out of my skin.
I would slide that razor and it would peel off my skin.
It might hurt, but it would have been done.
My head played the horror movie.
The razor. Slicing delicately. Peeling off my skin piece by piece.
I would be able to relax.
It would cut me out.
Then I could hide.
And I would finally be safe.
But your hug would trap me there.
Your hug would drag me back to my existance.
It would put me on time out.
Keeping me in a reality in front of children who would do nothing but laugh at me.
If I did not have anxiety
I would not have flinched.
I would have loved
A hug

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