It's coming back.
The same sentence I have never actually been able to say, it's playing in my head, over and over like a broken record, syllable demons grasping and clawing their way out of my mouth.
I want these things off of my flesh.
I wish I could stop touching my back to this chair.
To this shirt.
This bra, this skin, this FLESH.
But I will push it down, because I still can't say the sentence that would make you understand.