Soft Skin

a fragmented letter to self

Sometimes, just sitting next to someone feels unbearable.
The heavy weight of awkward conversation
between people who don’t know what to say.

Faces I’ve known for years —
people I’ve watched change,
people who’ve seen me change —
no longer feel familiar.

I’m afraid no one knows how to talk to me unless they’re holding a glass of alcohol.

I fear my old life is haunting me.

I feel stuck, antsy —
like I should be somewhere else,
doing something different.

I want to move to a different state.
I know it won’t “fix” me —
but it might open up something.
A new world.
It’ll make me uncomfortable,
and discomfort is what I need to grow.

I’m being hard on myself, I know that —
for not being more,
for not doing the right things at the right time,
and not reaching for what I’m supposed to want.

But then I remember,
I’m only a year and a half clean.

Even though I feel like I’m doing nothing,
I’m actually doing the most important thing —
staying sober.

I’m safe.
Even happy.
I have freedom — to move, to explore, to start over, to stay.
That’s a beautiful place to be.

Things are easy right now.
And although moving won’t give me that thing I’m searching for,
it will offer me momentum.

It’s not a solution I’m looking for —
because this life isn’t a problem.

—

Sitting in a cafe.
Heart racing almost painfully,
thudding in my chest.

I wanted to ask the woman at the table next to me about the book she was writing.
I overheard her talking about it to a friend —
its themes mirrored something that’s been bouncing in my head for months,
too shy to touch the page.

All I wanted was to turn to her,
say something lovely.
I can picture her smiling, getting excited to talk about it.
But I stay hidden,
silent.

Why does the idea of connection terrify me?
Why is my face flushed,
my hands hot?

All I want is a shared moment
with a stranger,
over something we’re both passionate about.

Another time, the same coffee shop.
A woman around my age was crying quietly in the corner of the sunlit room,
next to the giant fiddle-leaf fig.

I wanted to buy her a chocolate chip cookie
and leave it at her table without a word.

I couldn’t.

I thought about paying for it,
whispering to the barista,
asking them to bring it to her after I’d left.

I couldn’t do that either.
I actually started shaking.
Disoriented by that same mysterious fear,
blood warming my cheeks.

Another time, a different coffee shop.
I was leaning over a table, whispering to a friend about a fleeting crush.
Just saying the girl’s name aloud made my heart jolt,
pins prickling my skin —
like it was a sin.
Like she could hear us talking about her.

What is that — fear? Embarrassment?

Why do these small, human moments feel unbearable?
Why do I get so scared to be seen?

—

Living in fear.
Worried to step on someone’s toes.
Scared to defend my own opinion.
Terrified of looking dumb.

Quick to get defensive.
Quicker to stay silent.

Lying awake at night,
wishing I had said something.

—

Intimacy.
I see strangers online
finding and advertising new lovers
immediately after a bad breakup.

And I don’t think they’re doing something wrong.
Or right.

But —
aren’t they avoiding the feeling?

I couldn’t imagine touching someone else
after my last breakup.

For a moment,
I thought maybe that’s what I wanted.

After a previous breakup,
I had immediately slept with someone else —
as if to blot out the pain,
erase the marks that love had left on me.

Stomp out the fire.
The hatred I felt for her.

But this last one —
I knew I couldn’t erase it.

I’d have to bear it.
All of it.

I went on a few dates
with someone kind.
Someone who maybe could have been good to me.

I thought I just wanted to feel wanted.
To be touched.

But then she looked at me —
like she really wanted to know me.

And I turned away in disgust.
Not at her.
At myself.

Because it turned out,
I didn’t want to be touched.
And I didn’t want to be known.

I didn’t want connection.

I needed to be alone.
To carry it.
To sit with it.
To let it hurt.

I have soft skin,
I wonder when I will be willing to let someone in.