All my life I wished to be touched
Every time I saw someone I thought of their touch
Time and time again every movement and moment became a disappoinment
What was wrong with me?
Was it my looks, my colour, my clothes or lack of them?
Was I not capable of attracting anyone to me?
Hope turned into despair
Hard feelings turned to excruciating pain
Life turned into death
So desperate was I for touch
That I would go into the fields and run my fingers
Over the grains and flowers, spread them on the soil and dip them in the streams
And then someone came
But so distanced was I from anyone’s touch
That I ended up muttering ‘I don’t want your touch’, ‘I don’t want your touch’