i want haphephobia tattooed to my forehead
callused flesh prods my arm and
gooseflesh erupts over the plains
of body. bile slithers up my throat,
holding my breath like a vice.
i feel dirty i feel dirty i feel dirty—
the weight of a heavy hand that is
capable of heavy-handed strikes
lingers longer than it’s really there.
sometimes i think it’ll stay forever,
my flesh likes to keep reminders.
a wet, searing brand is planted on
my temple, like it belongs there.
my chest shrivels and dies again
and again, until i feel inside out.
i wipe desperately, but the stench
of it stays for another hot winter.
haphephobia haphephobia haphe—
maybe if i say it enough it’ll
show up in words on my forehead.
consent to touch is like offering
the keys instead of being driven.
the act of arm wrapping feels safe
if i’m the one doing the wrapping;
being wrapped is suffocating,
like the gaudy craft store ribbon
is being tied tight around my neck.
don’t touch me don’t touch me
keep your hands visible and away
i keep seeing the red handprints,
feeling the raw sting of discomfort.
don’t wanna feel five points of
pressure bracketing my wrist—
i can’t get oxygen in my lungs
i can’t see past the haze of panic
god all i can do is feel feel feel
and i want it to stop the collapsing
of my body and the void in my gut,
the vice around my throat my brain
am i drowning am i falling—