I would let someone touch me, to trail their fingertips down my silky skin, to glide over my curves, to trace every freckle, if they could handle not grabbing. That they could control themselves not to take more than I offer, to still their shaky addicted movements, they wouldn't grab me like they own me as a new collection. Like something that doesn't grab back.
I would go to a therapist, to let them prowl inside my thoughts, to understand what the raw nagging under the skin parasite that teaches me to be so over people, and then to get over it.
