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People come into my life and instantaneously level up. I have been told my clitoris is memorable. Grief makes me look different in a familiar way even as flow state drags me by their dark coils in a feeling forward upward spiral trajectory. Far few things more liberating than knowing many truths at all times in many forms are present and any attempt to force a singular truth is a silly collective harm. I am inching through a new dimly lit room about the reverberations of interpersonal harm, how complicity in my own harm paves paths for disrupted patterning, and nuclear family intimacies’ indoctronizing impact on what love actually is and desires to be.
I need more collective specificity on what love is, what love is not, and the continuums between. The tightrope of what love is and what love is not makes love dangerously porous. My body’s circuits experience things together. When I am in emotional distress, my chronic pain engines start to putter. I am tender to touch in my hips, thighs, ass, neck, and shoulders. The goal is not to eliminate pain but rather, understand their dialogue. Nuclear family intimacies harm my nervous system so when I am subjected to these dynamics, my body vocalizes nonconsent through chronic pain. Thanks body!
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