There are worse places, little girl. Worse hells. This isn’t one of them. There are depths you haven’t yet seen, where the dive alone would **** you. The sea monster of my depths, curled still, and waiting, waiting for me. I imagine his hand on my ***. I imagine all the trespasses I would never let happen (never again). There is the scene of the crime— I’ll be there once again— I’ll take a photograph of it again— where he knew, despite the hand that he let caress its way downward, despite his fingers that fumbled towards ecstasy, he knew— he knew that he never should have touched me.
The conversation about consent should have started a long time ago.