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Time in her Clinic.

P1040102

When alone with a man; him standing before her, she paused and waited. In no hurry she watched and waited. He is all alone, vulnerable and frozen to the spot under her gaze.

She watched and waited for the chinks to appear. Little teeny tiny holes at first. Some continue to expand, growing into fist sized tears, other holes remain small. Like bullet holes of vulnerability in his suit of armour.

She walked towards him looking into his eyes; they are sad, scared, full of shame and confusion. Circling each wound with her finger, tracing the raw edges and feeling the soreness under her gentle touch. She dipped in a finger, touching the delicate person inside; pulling out and tasting the essence of the human that is waiting for her to heal. He flinches and braces himself as she pushed her whole hand in through a large raw wound.

Here together in this room she strokes his pain. She made him feel whole, clean and normal….for a while.
Here in this room there are only her rules, she set the limits, he submits and becomes free. He can be honest and find release. Here in this room there are no secrets, there are no lies, there are no hidden boxes. They are base,  only animals…their true selves.

She dried his eyes and mopped his brow as the exertion of being honest is nearly too much to bear. On opening his eyes he feels everything will be alright, he can function; he can continue…he is at peace for the first time since he last stood before me.
It is time for him to go, she kisses his sweet lying mouth, bending down to lick the edge of each and every wound, pinching the skin together; the wound seals. He is ready to go back and into the world, his friends, his life; knowing that she, the only one who knows all of him and loves him as her own damaged boy.

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About Prim Quim

I am an artist and therapist. I work within the themes of sexuality, repression, guilt, greed, contradiction, objectification, compulsion, itches that need to be scratched and bruises that need to be pressed. I am a consentual bruise presser, a boundary straddler and limit pusher. I interview people and witness their lives, I write about what I see, how I feel and all the beautiful fragments that make up my reality. I am the sum of all my parts - some bits move and other parts are static, some bits need oiling and other bits just run and run. I am both subject and object to myself. I am slave to my Art and so are the others who come into my sphere. I objectify and use, interrogate and examine - I need their reality and reasoning to lay alongside my own to compare, contrast, season and gorge upon. Exponent of automatic writing, compulsive self realisation and daring myself to go further.

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