#healingthroughwords

Sometimes when I think of you,

my hands start to shake.

Not from excitement,

but from the quiet terror

of letting anyone close again.

I worry I’ll hide too well—

keep my heart locked

in some deep, unconscious effort

to never feel pain again.

As if safety could substitute

for love.

It sounds foolish, I know,

but pain rewrites the body.

Now when someone says I love you,

I flinch.

It hurts in my chest,

like my heart can’t bear

the weight of being wanted.

So I pray—

for God to soften the edges,

for a good therapist,

for courage to face the ghosts

before you find me.

I want to meet you

without shaking.

I want to trust

without armor.

I want love

to feel like warmth again,

not a wound reopening.

Until then,

I am learning

how to stay still

when kindness reaches for me.

They love my smile—it’s sweet, it’s wide,

like sun that kisses pain goodbye.

But none of them see what’s trapped inside,

the parts I’ve taught my grin to hide.

They love my curves, the way I sway,

how I move like velvet melts away.

They trace my hips with hungry eyes,

but never ask what lives inside.

They swear I flirt without a clue,

say I breathe slow like lovers do.

But I just laugh, and tilt my head,

while thoughts I never speak get said.

They think I’m magic—confident, sure,

the type of girl you can’t ignore.

But truth be told, I second guess,

I wonder if I’m still enough undressed.

Not just in lace or sheets or skin,

but when the silence settles in.

When I’m not moaning—when I’m still,

do you love me then? Or just the thrill?

‘Cause yes—my sex is something real.

I give like I know how to heal.

I write my name across your chest,

then wonder if you’ll clean the mess.

They say I taste like something rare,

like sin and honey in the air.

But when the high begins to fade,

will you still want the girl you made?

Not the dream you dressed in gold,

not the story someone told—

but the woman who’s afraid to show

how deep her deepest rivers flow.

I’m good on paper—bold and clean,

the girl who fits inside a dream.

But touch me slow, and you will see,

you’ve barely even read half of me.

So come correct. Or close the book.

I’m more than thighs and how I look.

More than moans or pretty face—

I’m soul, I’m weight, I’m heat, I’m grace.

–Mynyhan Kinard

© Mynyhan Kinard 2025. All rights reserved.

Reblogs are welcome.