Tina and I did a writing exercise.  We opened a book (The Other Side of Brightness by Colum McCann), blindly pointed at a sentence, copied it down and then wrote on from there.  This is my sentence and writing:

"Don't do that," she said, pushing his hand away."
You're too hard, too cunning and difficult - keep your hands to yourself.  If you touch me I want more but you only issue the invitation to be withdrawn so I don't want you to touch me.
In the evening I sit at my table breaking up tiny bits of glass into tinier bits and I wonder about you.  You come and go like a bitter winter wind, no spring in your breeze, a flight of crows, no bluebirds, in the darkening sky.  Why is this?  Who has broken your heart and left you alone and shattered to abandon and shatter others?
It is not apparent at first.  You are full of summer winds and starry nights but soon the brokenness surfaces and the fearfulness of that overgrown heart, shaped and reshaped by doctors, lovers, family and friends, begins to appear - defending itself from every nuance of care or love - denying itself the healing it needs and so I just have to say, "Don't touch me, don't do that," and push your hand away.