I was certain there was no worse feeling than having someone inside of you when you did not want it. It did not go away. The memory raped long after the person stopped. My childhood self was clay and sometimes I felt like my insides were shaped by their fingers, by their organs, by their wills. I didn’t even want to touch myself, or look at it, really. I didn’t want anything to do with it except to maybe cut it out of me.
