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He’s got a point, I think. I can’t hate him if I never told him to stop. But then his sweaty fingers using force to pry my tightly closed thighs apart comes to mind. I think of how I sat there lifelessly as he offered me a massage. I think of my frowns. Of my lack of appetite. Of my shaking fingers and twitching mouth. I think of all the things that silence says and not one of them is “yes.””
Silence Is Not A “Yes” | Lora Mathis
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