Mae Herring, "Echoes"

You know how sometimes, a word or a phrase can get stuck in your head?
Maybe it doesn't happen to you
but for me, it happens all the time. 
I think it’s often in response to some anxious state
and once that word or phrase is uttered, it's stuck. 
And it goes and goes and goes on repeat. 
An example I can think of off the top of my head would be, “I always end up here.” 
It’s a simple one. 
That of a wandering orphan in the forest who has seen that tree far too many times. 
I always end up here. 
It refers to my state of mind. 
A never ending circle where I see mountain tops and sunsets and beautiful, beautiful things. 
But then I'm here again. 
In the dark forest of my own mind where repetition means biting nails and tapping heels and
sleeping for 17 hours on a school day. 

The other day, I was sitting with a friend. 
He’s a sweet guy with what I know to be only good intentions.
He put his hands on my leg. 
I should be fine. 
There are other people here. 
I have nothing to worry about.
He’s just being friendly. 
I moved to the bed where two other people were already sitting to calm my racing heart. 
Quietly retreating into the corner, I felt comfort in the fact that there was space between me and
the other people on the bed, but not enough for another person to sit. 
I could breathe. My heart rate slowed. Panic attack averted. 
And then, he squeezed himself into the space that truly was too small for someone to fit in. 
So, whatever, right? 
And then his hands were on me again. 
I had my knees pulled to my chest, but that was a mistake. 
Because then, as his hand lowered from my calf to my ankle, and then to the space behind them,
I could feel the heat of his hand hovering inches away from my skin. 
And then just small two fingered touches to the backs of my thighs. 
Soft, non threatening, probably even unintentional. 
But then I was stuck. In a phrase. One that I have found myself stuck in time and time again. 
Don't touch me. 
Don't touch me don't touch me don't touch me don't touch me don't touch me. 
But I was frozen, unable to speak the words that interrupted every other sound. 
I think there were people talking, but I couldn't say for sure.
Echoes like this tend to block out the rest of my senses until all I hear is their screams. 
Fifteen minutes went by. 
Don’t touch me don’t touch me don’t touch me
What was I supposed to do? 
It shouldn’t even matter this much, it wouldn’t to a normal girl. 
But then I said it. Aloud, with my voice. 
“Don’t touch me, please”
And it was awkward, as you'd expect. 
But the day moved forward. And I breathed. And everything was fine. 
And I'm sorry. 
But, no. I’m not sorry. 
Because this body is mine. 
And I get to decide who touches it. 
This body is mine; and I get to decide who sees it. 
This body is mine; and I get to decide who holds it. 
This body is mine. Not yours. 
And you said you think I’m beautiful. 
Thank you, sincerely.
But you calling it beautiful doesn’t mean it's yours. 
And me, staying silent, 
doesn’t mean it's yours. 
This body is mine.