Touch Me

"Touch me," I whisper,

but he only touches my body,

rough, raw hands.

He doesn’t understand

that I meant touch me

the way that first gasp

kisses your lips

when you see something shocking.

Touched

like an old library book,

spine cracked, pages worn thin

by someone lost in my chapters.

A touch that isn't just

tingles on my skin,

but that extra thump

every time my heart dares to beat

like yours is superimposed on mine.

I want a touch that feels

like maybe I could do

all the things

I always told myself I couldn’t.

I want to feel:

seen,

safe,

secure,

not just fingertips,

not just tongues.

I want to be touched so deeply

we could swim inside it,

maybe get pulled under,

dragged below through the oceanic abyss

together.

But I wear a suit of spikes

to keep their touches away.

They don’t mean a goddamn thing anyways.

Puddles can't satiate my thirst.