Impermeable Softness

My world consists of myself and a large white box in near-darkness, this room.  Lack of lights mean relaxation to me, but the air I breathe in is dark too, at very least shaded.  Mellow air, but heavy as pensiveness.  I breathe it in, and my thoughts sink inward.  My hands slipping up and down my folded arms provide necessary insulation, comfort.  As does my cheek against my bare shoulder.  The cushioning of airy dream and memories of warm foggy lips.  My own slow breath warms the air around me, and the feeling of this warms the space inside me.  Emotional insulation.  That’s what I’m so good at providing myself.  So much so that it’s hard to open myself up.  To anyone.  I’ve insulated myself to the point that I don’t think this room even has a door anymore.  Or windows.  Or maybe I’ve just hidden them under so many layers of walls woven from the thread of clouds created in my own mind.  

I like my protection to feel soft.  Because my desires alone could impale me.