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—