My Body Still Longs

My body aches to be touched — not just grazed,

but held with love and reverence.

It craves warmth.

The closeness of skin on skin.

The slow kind of intimacy — the kind that says I see you.

But I have been taught to hide these needs.

Told that desire is not mine to claim.

Told that as a woman, I must quiet the fire.

That longing is dangerous. That pleasure must be earned.

That I should be grateful for scraps of affection.

I am not meant to crave.

I am not meant to ask.

I am not meant to be seen — only to serve.

But the ache does not leave.

It simmers under the weight of motherhood.

Because this body — this sacred, stretched, changed body —

once carried life.

And now it feels like it no longer belongs to me.

You touch me, but not there.

Not like that.

Not like before.

And sometimes I wonder if you still see me —

not the mother, not the routine, but me.

I want the kiss that lingers.

The hug that says I miss you.

The gaze that strips away the noise

and lands directly on my soul.

I want to be held — not just to be useful,

but because I am still here.

Still whole.

Still worthy.