I once told everyone that I wanted to be untouchable

That I wanted to reach for the skies

And brush fingers with the stars

But now

Standing in a room where everyone is touching

Brushing shoulders



And lips

I begin to wonder

Was it worth it?

Were the hours of effort

And tears

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


Or unlovable


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.