Touch Me Where It Hurts
Do not touch me there. There was someone who
reveled in my skin, but he’s long gone since
the sins of the fathers permeated
my own veins, my blood, the very essence
of living the life I had not foreseen.
Touch me here, where it hurts like no other,
where the mere flutter of kisses linger
on my neck, reminding me of letters
never sent, of souvenirs I never
took from places I had never been to.
Do not touch me there, where the wound sits raw,
invisible, unseen and unwelcomed.
To feel it with fingers, with tongue, with skin,
is to memorize its face, acknowledge
its inanity, its absurdity.
Touch me here, where my heart sits quietly
in submission to love and only love.
There is no pain here, no judgment or strife.
The wound does not hurt; it is just as strong
as the desire to touch another’s skin.
Ramon Loyola is a writer of poems, fiction and non-fiction, and is the author of three books of poetry. His writing has appeared in various journals and publications. He lives in Sydney in the company of his own shadow.
This poem is not previously published.