Laying back in the bathtub, having my hair washed and conditioned, strong fingers massaging my scalp while I close my eyes and think of others.
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I see myself as an indelible mark on those I’ve loved, stronger and deeper probably, than what is really there because my imagining is borne out of arrogance and ego, and yet I think it’s true, even while I admonish myself.
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The first boy who loved me did so at 16, resentfully in the end when I didn’t do what he wanted, a want that I didn’t even realise he had, and which … Continue Reading