whatever i touch
turns into tragedy—
Midas wishes his hands
were made of mine.

i dare not touch
trees and their leaves—
their old age
will not matter
once i graze their skin.

i do wonder
if everything good
that comes are worthy
of my ruin—
they quickly turn
sour and ugly
once they,
finally,
rest their heads
on my lap
and i am left here,
once again,
picking up the scraps,
telling myself
nothing incredibly,
or inherently, bad
has happened yet.

but what if it comes?

what if the world
decides to put
the blame on me
and punish me
for simply being alive?

should i keep
crawling back
to life?

or should i
accept the fate
i have been given?