I got a touch aversion.
Because I find
hallow actions
repulsive.
 

I shudder when
brazen fingers
cross my skin,
meaningless caresses
of empty lust
and shallow conversations.

You gotta feel me to f*** me.

And their hands
feel too dry.
Brass wire fingertips
pressing against my skin.
I am lowkey repulsed after.

I got a touch aversion.
Because the body
is a temple
I must protect.
I do it at all costs.
My skin is
the first defense.

Its my armor, my shield.
a weapon to be kept
sharp and shined.
Alluring, yet jagged,
leaving small cuts
that feel made from paper.

I got a touch aversion.
So when I touch you,
I hope you feel
the warmth in it.
You got this way
of seeping through
skillfully woven seams,
but you're careless
in application.

I keep touching you
but you feel like
a burner
on the stove.
I touch you anyway.
But I know better.