As a child, I was told that anything I touch breaks. They speak of it as if it was a curse held onto me, something I cannot escape. But again, as a child, I made myself believe that it was a lie. Maybe I was just clumpsy, and that they kep saying that to scare me; to scare me so I would stop touching things. So I would stop breaking them.

But once when I was nine, my mom brought home a new vase. She plastered it into place on a corner, where it could be properly displayed. I touched it, admiring the design and how it glistens to the light. "Be careful," she said. "You wouldn't want to break that again."

For a few days, I was starting to believe that I don't break everything I touch. Not until I accidentally slipped, my feet swiped on the corner, and the art made of marble fell into pieces. And once again, I was marked. And ever since then, I believed what I was told.

Maybe that's why I'm afraid to touch you. I'm afraid to feel your warmth. I'm anxious to feel you for I might tear you apart. I can be your destruction while you are my light. I wouldn't want you to dim because of me. You deserve so much better, and so much more than the girl who broke that new vase.

You don't deserve someone whose touch can break.