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This is an excerpt from my notes. They are not fixed nor full processes of my thoughts, but they are mine, and every day I try to fully own them.

I feel separate from my body. I feel avoidant and void. When I try to look for myself my body hides, my brain pulls away from the truth and tells me I want more. More food, more sex without love…in fact, sex with hate and anger. More plants to capture. To make me feel more wild when really I am bound. I am self-bound by the chains that my environment has given me with the false hope of grounding. I want to be mired and securely so.

Why do I not want to feel my vagina? Every time I am down there I immediately don’t want to be. It feels dirty, wrong, and a violation of my body. A violation I am doing to myself. Allowing it to happen like all the other times I allowed it to happen. I know I was a child. I know I was manipulated. I know.

I know.

I know.


But I don’t believe it. Not always. Not when I feel those same feelings of disgust, pleasure, fear, and pain when my lover enters me. When they look at me expecting to find on my face ecstasy but all I feel is nothing.

Nothing and no.

I want to apologize for my malfunctioning.

But my body is not an apology, neither will be my story.

I want to provide you with a reason for all these disjointed memories and mixed signals in the hopes you will return to me.

But I am not damaged goods. I am not a transaction, an item to be weighed, measured, and found wanting in any quantifiable scale that you used to turn away from your own emptiness and syphon mine.

But there are days.

Many days.

When I can not feel my own fullness.

So I syphon.

Syphon into nothing. I am not even a filter.

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