Almost Like Love

On the difference between being held and being wanted

⚠️: explores themes of longing, intimacy, and emotional vulnerability.

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“Hold me, goddammit.”

Why?

Every.

Single.

Time.

Why do I have to beg you to hold me.

Hold me, my love.

Let me forget that the world around us does not exist.

Let me forget the things of the world that cause my heart pain and give my mind no rest—the weight in my bones, the way sleep refuses me.

Let me forget the troubles of the earth and focus only on your arms wrapped around me, wrapped around my body,

holding me close, feeling the warmth of your chest against my face,

hearing your heartbeat like something being checked for proof it still works.

Listening to it.

That rhythm I sometimes forget even exists.

Each thump against your chest, that moves blood through you, reminds me you have a heart—

present,

beating.

But not for me.

Maybe, I wasn’t held enough growing up.

Maybe, I was deprived of my mother’s arms as I began to form words, as I began to understand, that I wasn’t built for connection—that I would spend most of my time with my arms wrapped around myself, searching for a warmth she never gave me enough of.

So I look for that warmth in you.

So I tell you:

Hold me, please—even if you don’t want to.

Hold me so I can trick myself into believing that you do.

Hold me as you kiss me and whisper those empty three words:

“I love you.”

And just maybe… I’ll believe you.

Hold me so tight

it almost feels like restraint,

like if I tried to pull away

you’d notice—and maybe you wouldn’t let me.

Let your hands move like they already know

I won’t say no.

Not because I want this,

but because I don’t know how not to.

Press me closer than necessary.

Keep me right where you want me—

not enough to hurt,

just enough to remind me

who’s deciding this moment.

Every pull back in.

Every pause that feels like control.

Every second you take your time

like I’m something to be used slowly, deliberately—

like I’ll still be here

no matter how you handle me.

Say my name like it means something,

even if we both know it doesn’t last past this moment.

Let your voice sit in my ear, low, convincing—

the kind that makes me forget I was ever questioning any of this.

And I’ll let you take what you want.

I always do.

Not because I have to,

but because for a moment, it almost feels like being chosen—

like being held the way I needed before I knew how to ask.

Just don’t leave too quickly after.

Don’t roll away like it’s over.

Stay long enough that I can pretend

this was more than that.

That I was more than that.

And after?

Will you hold me?

Will you pull me toward your chest, now slick with sweat that rises and falls?

Will you hold me so tight, that I hear your heartbeat like it’s trying to escape you?

Or will I have to imagine everything

as my body grows cold

from the lack of warmth I so desperately need from you?

I crave it so badly.

Or is this another moment

where I wrap my arms around myself

to recreate what I keep reaching for—

the warmth my mother never gave enough of,

the same warmth I keep trying to pull from you…

just to prove I am worthy of it?

Because maybe that’s the truth of it.

Not that you won’t hold me—

but that even when you do,

it never stays enough.

So I learn your shape,

your weight,

the rhythm of your breathing—

so I can recreate it later,

alone,

with my own arms around myself,

pretending it’s still you. Because maybe it was never you.

Just the feeling of being wanted.

And I hate that I can’t tell the difference anymore.

So I close my eyes anyway,

let the silence answer for you, and hold myself, until the cold settles in,

quiet,

familiar,

until it feels almost like love.