The couch scratched my thigh in the most distracting way. I immediately regretted wearing shorts. As if I was not vulnerable enough, opening my mind and turning my truths into air for others to breath, sound for others to interpret, tangible realities for myself to confront. And the itching of the twill couch on my bare thighs created a most unwelcoming sensation. As if the couch was whispering to me: “pssst, you’re not safe here. You’re not supposed to be comfortable.” My truths are safe inside the private universe of my own mind. Protected by their failure to ever leak into anyone else’s mind space where they could be whirled and battered into anything other than what they are to me. He sat across from me, his eyes awaiting my exposure as if his delicious prey was cornered.

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