You can’t withhold sex from me! he exclaimed. It’s in your job description.
Just because I’m a prostitute, she replied, doesn’t mean I have to have sex with my husband every time he expects it! You aren’t paying me!
You don’t pay all that rent money, you know. It’s my job at the plant that puts food in your mouth, so now you can put something else in it!
She turned around, mouth snarling and eyes so bright it hurt to look at them. Slowly, she spat out the words that she had been holding in for so long: “And at what point did you think it would help us by withholding this information?!”
I’ve withheld myself
in the sky and clouds
for far too long.
I’ve withheld joy
and the company of others
from myself, because I was scared
of this mind– of this heart and its lessons.
I was scared I’d hurt you.
I’m done. Let it fly like ash to the wind.
Perhaps someday, soon, you can know
me as I long to know you.
I hadn’t lied, not really. Yes, I’d withheld information. But it was for her own benefit. She didn’t need to know about the things I had to do to keep her safe, to keep us safe. She deserved the chance to be young and free and more innocent than I could imagine.
It’s a secret, a terrible, precious, secret, and it’s one that she knows would destroy him. But er brother’s happiness is the most important thing in the world, and so she will keep this silence.
I am withholding. Meaning that I withhold information. I don’t tell people things. Mostly things that are bothering me or that I am struggling with. There is one person though that I do tell things to and that is my therapist. Even if I don’t want to she can somehow make me feel safe enough to tell her. So I don’t withhold so much with her.
Furfrou didn’t like sharing all his secrets with Samantha. Or, any secrets, really.
It wasn’t because he didn’t trust her- even though her fashion sense was questionable and not exactly trustworthy itself, actually. But he was just secretive in general, he supposed. He didn’t tell anyone much of anything, really. Sometimes he’d jot down his mental whisperings in a journal he kept by his bed, but frequently he’d just keep them stored away somewhere in his mind. He didn’t really have friends to whispers the secrets to, under the false privacy the corners of rooms and sitting behind walls gave.
But then again, nobody told him their secrets either. So it kind of evened out.
Never withhold from saying what you truly want to say. It often does not do us any good to keep our true feelings locked up inside. Let the words flow from your mouth, because yes, they could be harmful, but they could also be the same words that will change your life forever. Say what is on your mind and maybe you will help someone out who had trouble seeking assistance.
Jenkins kept quiet, though he knew Melinda wanted to hear his side of the story. He refused to bow to her manner of resolving issues.
Witholding from everyone else is a struggle. But it’s the safest way to assure that I won’t get hurt again. And I can’t trust anybody after what happened last time.
withhold your emotions, don’t let them show
if they see, then they will know
if you can’t hide it, let them go
withhold my thoughts
withhold my feelings
it’s better for you
if I just withhold
Why withhold the truth of our history from our children. They need to know the truth our our forefathers and the struggle for freedom.
I can no longer withhold from grabbing him and screaming, “I need more, I need to feel wanted and needed.” It has almost become impossible, as our communication degrades our relationship has become a sunken pit of fake emotions. Yet, I can’t let go, knowing how it used to be and craving that same feeling again. How do I know what to do? I know I deserve better, but I don’t have the strength to leave, the strength to make a change.
There’s a lot I don’t know about my own life, a fact that is both relieving and infuriating. As a full-time employee–and one who works harder than at least half of my coworkers–I fee entitled to knowing at least some of the things going on in the community to which I dedicate 37.5 hours of my week.
He rushes to the sink, washing his hands furiously (and with way too much soap). “I AM STERILE – NO BODY TOUCH ME!” Everything has happened so fast, so there wasn’t much time for thinking – all he knew is that his friend was lying on the table with a knife in his skull.
‘Just for the toilet. The part that fits over the toilet, the bowl. Like a catching screen.’
‘I’m not sure that’s it.’
‘It’s this right here. To catch the stool. Goes right over the toilet bowl. You could use plastic, Saran wrap instead and make a little dip in it but I’m sure the Doc wanted you to have something easier to use. Just two bucks. You need sterile cups or did you already get everything from the Doc?’
the whole room was bare,
only a single table sit in the cetner.
an ominous light hovering above
it like an alien craft
about to burn in a crop circle.
Ambling around the park, I stopped motionless as I saw him again in 5 months. I went sterile but my hammering chest and my magnified vision of him with eyes filled with an orgy of sensation at her. He never looked at me with such fondness. Trying to inveigle myself that it bears no effect in me, waves of unbridled pain washed over as light wintry breeze brushed past.
She was kept in a special cubicle on the ward where you had to be gowned up before you went in to see her. Everything had to be kept really clean and sterile. It was heartbreaking.