He came home horny. I could tell immediately.
I don’t know why that bothers me so much. I don’t know why it bothers me at all. But it does.
The anniversary of my sister’s death is in less than 2 weeks. I’m overcome with grief and anger and loathing and hopelessness and an overriding sense of helplessness.
He came home horny, and it makes me feel sick. The idea that anyone would desire my body turns my stomach. It makes me nauseous to think about.
I wish I could melt off my body like melting the wax off the wick of a candle.
It suffocates me.
I wish no one desired me. I feel dirty. Used. Soiled.
I am trapped in the onslaught of the crashing waves of lust and loathing, desire and despondency.
I hate that he wants to touch me and I hate that I let him.