He doesn’t think the way I do

When I looked at this hands, this morning in the kitchen table, holding the cup of coffee, placing it near his lips with fear, burning his mouth a little, two lumps of sugar, so dexterous with the butter. I thought: those hands. Those fingers have been inside me. They have been covered in his saliva, my fluids. He had hurt me with them. He had indulged me with them. With his hands he had claimed my body, pressing my nipples, slapping my legs. Spitting in my mouth only to later touch my lips with the same fingers he was then using for peeling a banana, so gently, he sliced it and put it inside of his warm almond milk bowl. Without even thinking. 

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