I shake my head, but I don’t fight him off because I don’t want to. It’s too hard. Counterintuitive. I love being touched by him; I want to be touched by him. And held by him and kissed by him and had by him and I haven’t been for nearly three years and I’ve had him for three days and now I’m losing him again and my skin feels like there’s acid on it with the betrayal—it took me so long to stave off the wildfire for him in my belly and now it’s back and it can’t be. But I’ll douse it out however I need to, because I’ll never have him again. This is the end.
