I once told everyone that I wanted to be untouchable
That I wanted to reach for the skies
And brush fingers with the stars
Standing in a room where everyone is touching
I begin to wonder
Was it worth it?
Were the hours of effort
And toil worth this prestige?
Is it even prestige if I need a paper to prove it?
Is it honor if a number negates my process
Is it dignity if I don’t want it?
Because I know that if I try to brush fingers
I will flex my hands until the feeling of my skin against someone else’s goes away
I will lay wide awake at night and wonder
Why I can’t touch other people
Why I can’t get my body to take that next step
Why skin feels like rubbing a snake the wrong way
Not remembering closeness and intimacy
But I can remember everything I did to get myself here
I can remember shaving my head
And cutting my nails
And scarring my hands
And wearing a frown
And in this room full of people
I still wonder
If untouchable means unapproachable
I have had several revelations in the past couple of months; one of which being the discovery of touch aversion. In a society where touch is everything in a relationship, this epiphany has brought me to a conflict as well. The poem itself is Part 2 to Untouchable, yet the focus shifts slightly. From ambition to connection. I don’t know what I will do with this discovery yet, but I do hope it’s for the better.