He came in the night & kissed my head as I lay, my bod mostly bare with the chemise on. He told me he loved me so I believed it. He loved her, he didn’t tell me but I knew. I could read his eyes. To him, like to the men before him, I’d transformed from a woman to a sexual object. I was to blame, I suppose they were right. The only love I deserved was from what they obtained pleasure or else, I’d no rights to feel or desire. They failed to see the human element of emotional hunger that I expressed between those kisses & cuddles. They would rather label me a nymphomaniac than understand my need for love. I was desirable-good to know. I was rich & glamorous-perfect make of a mistress. I was lonely, hollow & scared- denied to possess the qualities.
Night after night, for years I pleased one, then another hoping to find something lasting. The bed was warm but it left me cold each time the door shut behind them. I searched for someone different. I wanted something real. Then I did find that someone, who loved me for me & replaced the pain with his warmth & affection. I happily gave my hand for the ring. My life was full of bliss-at least for a while. Then his eyes changed as he grew restless trying to find something new. The glow I held began to diminish as emptiness crawled back, bringing insecurity & bitterness for company. History repeated itself as summer turned to a permanent winter. So this night was like the nights before but left a shaper chill as his footsteps turned to leave the door.