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It was in a random commentary of yours that I understood what paralyses me: the oceanic body of another woman, whom I will never be, yet that still contains me. In her, I’m torment and impotence: penetrate and fulfill, you or another, the holes already taken, while mine remain hollow, empties of angsts, traversed by dark oceans.
In this being without place, I’m even, odd in not knowing how (or who) to desire. I’m outside, but inside, another woman who wants to know nothing of me. An added surplus lost in the epicentre of pain and love – the impossibility of being protagonist of my own body, the obscure alterity which masks all my affections. In short, loving you is to reveal what I most hate in myself: my lost and indigested sexuality, of nobody.