i write about touching because my finger tips long to feel.
my body often feels vacant,
so untouched after too many years.
i wish to be grazed and gripped and grabbed and squeezed and poked and touched,
i wish for my skin to feel less like a shell and more like a home.
too many times my skin is cold of the knowledge of other humans,
and maybe it is my own fault.
maybe i am too off putting,
but i think if my back was to be patted once it might go too far to my head,
anything at this point feels so extremely intimate,
like my skin is not meant to be touched but on very few occasions.
i feel devoid of love when i realize how long it has been since my last hug.
maybe i am not worthy of a warm touch,
but i will write, and wish, and dream,
that my skin will be a roommate to someone else's.
YOU ARE READING
permanence
Poetryone day, someone is going to come along and have no problem loving all of me. in the meantime, i have to do it myself. or a book in which i beg to be held.
