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Don’t Touch Me

Don’t touch me. Your hands are not his, I want nothing to do with them. Don’t look at me, you don’t want me like he said he did, you only want the dark things about me. The things I do because I’m lonely and when the lights are off your silhouette is almost identical to his. Don’t say sweet things to me, you are a liar. I can taste it in the carbon dioxide that comes through the air with those words, it’s poison.
Don’t touch me. I use to believe that love would be magical, and now it seems desolate. Love is a desert and it’s sand fills my shoes and it burns and there is no shade, it is constant. I use to believe that love would be butterflies, but I’ve learned that butterflies only make me nauseous.
Please don’t make me love you. You, with the red beard and the bagels, I do not want to feel this again. My stomach rolls over on itself and there’s a part of me that hopes it will swallow me whole. I have spent so much of my life wanting to die but being too afraid, and being too hopeful that tomorrow will be better.
Don’t touch me. You are a cold hotel lobby masquerading as a living room. All your warmth is from a machine. I want to feel, so I let you touch me. Your mouths leave bruises like war stories on my body. I don’t want to look at myself because I remember when you were on me and it makes me ill.
Don’t touch me.

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