I send heart energy down my arms across his back. I think recoiling, I’d hate to have my hands elsewhere or another’s hands on me, some(one)
stranger, and I wonder if I’m projecting that or if in fact he sexually abused
himself from May-July.
I know one thing for sure: I was (am) an integrated
self-possessed adult, and yet I am a kind of shattered after just one big
helping. What does a steady diet of
take-backsies love and intimate manipulation do to the mind of a child and across
the arc of a lifetime? When I think
about it that way, it’s a wonder to me that he never committed suicide (more).
