No. Stop. Don’t touch me, please.
God, I’m sorry. I was just trying to hold you…
No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I know you were just trying to hold me. And I love you, I do, but sometimes I just don’t want to be touched.
I feel that way sometimes too.
It’s just awful, isn’t it? And sometimes I just want to be touched so badly, so goddamn badly, like a vase longs to be filled with flowers, and other times I shrink back from someone’s hands because they’re getting too close to me.
That kind of paradox is such a confusing thing. But I understand, though. It’s like being made of glass, and sometimes you want someone to polish you up gently; other times you’re afraid they’ll shatter you.
Yes. Yes, just like that.