It used to be, for me
That a touch would make me sick
And funny how even now
In certain ways
At certain times
A touch can make me cringe

I am sent reeling to a time
When a touch was not my choice
And so without thinking
With unconscious effort
And spontaneous reaction
A touch is pushed away

My childhood self reacts
To a touch that is not wanted
All the while my adult self fights
For comfort
For love
A touch that should be welcomed

Then there are the times
When a touch satisfies the child and the adult
If it is soft and slow and un-frightening
When it is offered
And accepted
A touch that is inviting and unassuming

I can only hope for the day
When a touch will never be scary
The day I can open myself and feel
Without shame
Without inadequacy
A touch that is always fulfilling