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My wrist is pinned.     He tells me what to eat, how to breathe (I don't do it teen sex deeply enough), that I am too tense and that I need to masturbate every teen sex day to release tension. "You're crazy," I said when he said that. "I'm a grown woman. You're going to make me leave you. I can't breathe!" He laughed. "That's what love is, Lisa! Your lives are teen sex entwined; you're invested in the other person's health. Of course I tell you love how to eat and sleep and breathe! You tell me, too."     He was right. I do do it too. I learned about life from visiting my father, but I learned about love from my mother. My mother's love was improper and destructive and selfish, but it was also huge, and it was all mine. When I was trapped underneath it, it frightened and enraged and suffocated me, and yet once I escaped it, I found myself at odd moments missing it, craving it: that too-much love.
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