Please stop touching me.
When you do, I can feel my skin turn to dust. Like ancient ruins, like the ash being flicked off the end of a cigarette, like anything less than a human being.
Please stop touching me.
I'm as fragile as glass, and my hands are too small to pick up all of the pieces that break from my body when you grab me by the arm.
Please stop touching me.
Your arms around my neck sound like people screaming, "Witch!" and your arm isn't an arm, it's a noose, and I don't know if I want you to hold on, or if I want the floor pulled from beneath me.
Please stop touching me.
I'm not someone that you can rent and return, I'm not yours, and you wouldn't want me to be; because wherever you touch is scarred flesh from the fire hands of the people that made me afraid of being touched.
Please stop touching me.