- for whom
- not moving
- my cystic left ovary/blood/leaking
- my technique
What the voice tells me now, these days, is: They're not that bad, the things here & there that happened to you, at least it wasn't ________ or __________ ________ __________. At least it wasn't your childhood. I say to the voice: except for masturbation, it was. I mean, it wasn't that bad, but -- or, I hear similar stories, & --
As a baby-infant, I was a humper. Every day. My favorite -- (I've since learned to suck one particular cock like it's the mamma's breast I never got fed) -- my favorite: humping the pillow, the bear, rocking slow and fast slow.
Here, in my adult apartment, rotating the pelvis on the pillow, covered in quilts. Hot. Heat. Hiding. I'm remembering. At the baby-infant sitter's house. Her seeing me -- I'm on a bed there humping her pillow. The memory is so early, so strong so Core and so far in that I lack the clear words. The message was
- No
- Gross
- Satan
- Stop
- Shame
- Never Again
I mean someone must've been onto me. Telling my parents.
Cover my body w/a blanket, wiggle silently. Only my hips.
This & hide it hide it hide it.
Today I cum belly down blankets off breaths moans arising & my hands starting to touch: thigh, back breasts arms -- these parts are numb & cold in sensation.
Love the title first of all. And then this:
ReplyDeleteWhat the voice tells me now, these days, is: They're not that bad, the things here & there that happened to you, at least it wasn't ________ or __________ ________ __________.
I know I do this. Weigh my pain against other's, diminish it, apologize for it. Say it wasn't so bad. Say it might have been___. I like the spaces here that I (clearly) filled in my own blanks.
And all the rest. I loved all the rest. too. Thank you.