don’t touch me


I’ve never been fond of massages.
Perhaps an aversion to being touched.
Where along the path of me,
did I decide that fighting,
would be the best way to ward you off.

Maybe God heard my pleas,
and broadened my shoulders,
thickened my trunks,
squared my jaw,
and expanded my heart.
Gave me speed without warning,
strength in absolutes
and beyond the pale of comprehension.

Maybe he gave me a stare without warmth,
detachment from everyone save myself,
so I wouldn’t need anyone.

I’m comfortable inside,
I know the intricacies of my body,
and how to manipulate them,
yes, that’s it,
that’s why I have no need to be touched.

Conversely,
I’ve met many people who enjoy massages,
and I can’t buy it as leisurely,
nor therapeutic on a medical level,
save for the battered and bruised,
save for the incapable and disadvantaged.

I think their need to be massaged is a need to be touched,
touched because they cannot delve deep inside themselves enough,
to touch or change their own physiology, their own psychology.

For the last month I have endured through injuries I brought upon myself,
for pushing boundaries I’ve erected through  negligence.
I wanted, so badly to ask for help,
to relieve myself,
but for one reason or another, I didn’t.

It doesn’t matter,
it’s gone,
but what it brought with it has remained,
and deepened my rift from humanity.

I’m not afflicted,
perhaps pensive,
and utterly irreconcilable,
perplexed by societal discord,
nay, rather their disconnect,
with themselves,
with the need for absolutes,
with the need for truth.

Perhaps they need to be touched so often,
because it is a recharge of what they lack,
instead of becoming a perpetual, self charging being,
they’re happy to dilute who they are with others,
infection even.

– Wesam El dahabi

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