Inked Sins

Like a flower deprived of sunlight,
I wither in the absence of touch.
It’s a longing, deep-rooted and persistent,
that gnaws at my soul—
a hunger I’ve carried for years.

I crave the simple
yet profound gestures of affection.
Like a child seeking solace
in a mother’s gentle caress,
a daughter yearning
for a father’s approving pat,
a sibling hoping for the affection
that often goes unspoken.

Growing up,
such gestures were foreign to me.
So I sought solace in giving them.
I hugged friends
in their darkest hours,
offering a shoulder to cry on.
I shared the same kindness
with strangers,
driven by a desire
to connect and comfort.

But I couldn’t ask for the same affection
I so readily gave.
It felt foreign,
awkward,
even shameful.
The idea of vulnerability terrified me.
I was always the strong one
the one who supported others,
never the one in need.

Then, unexpectedly
I met a stranger
who saw beyond my facade.
He embraced my vulnerability
without hesitation,
offered his shoulder
when I was weary,
his touch
when I needed comfort,
and his unwavering belief
when I doubted myself.
He celebrated
even my smallest achievements
and understood the depth of my longing—
the emptiness I carried inside,
calling me his “strong girl”
even as he held me in my fragility.

Now that he’s gone,
the void he left is immense.
I crave the physical affection
everyone else takes for granted—
the warmth of a hug,
the comfort of a caress.
But I still fear exposing my vulnerability,
fearing judgment, fearing rejection.

I wish
people understood the power of touch,
the healing it brings,
the quiet solace in simply being held.
A world where comfort is offered
without hesitation,
where I can exist freely,
without the need to ask.

I crave it—
every moment, every breath.
A silent wish
For I am touch-starved to death.