Updated: Sep 2, 2020
I am just realising that all those years you sucked on my nipples were like a constant pulling of the trigger. The gun of a thousand past encounters where I didn’t want to be touched.
For three and a half years I breastfeed a baby not noticing that every time you sucked out the milk I sucked in my breath. Burying past traumas deeper inside my lungs, by heart, by being. And now in this discovery, I am not able to be.
I think of how much you love to touch, to explore my friends bodies, to play, to caress, to feel an intimacy I didn’t realise I was withholding. I have become so accustomed to holding in, holding in myself.
Milk drips like water torture, tapping on my own skin.
I find myself telling you it hurts at bedtime when reading stories, you want cuddles. I tell you this without thinking, without understanding my own words. How long have I been telling you this and why have I only just realised the pain is not a small child placing their head on my chest.