When you touched me, I cried. Every single time.
I hated being touched. Looked at. Thought about.
You did all those things with no hesitation, with no hidden motive, with nothing but love.
I hated you for it.
I still hate you for it.
But, despite my tears and despite my disapproval, I let you touch me. Again and again. I let you touch me all over, all the time, whenever you wanted.
You would touch my hand, and I'd cringe.
You would touch my shoulder, and I'd wince.
You would touch my back, and I'd tear up.
You would touch my thigh, and I'd close my eyes.
You would touch my face, and I'd cry.
My favorite thing about you was that despite my sobbing and despite my hesitation, you would never stop touching me.
After a moment of you caressing my cheek and me dropping tears onto your fingers, you stopped and stood up. Towering over me. Wiping me tears off of your hand and onto your shirt.
"I'm sorry," you screamed, "but how can I live with the fact that whenever I touch you, it's like I'm cutting your skin open? Like as if I'm hurting you, burning you!"
"It's not like that," I mumbled. I couldn't look at you because I knew if I did, your emerald eyes would cut right through me. That would hurt more than any time you've ever touched me.
"Then what is it like?" You demanded. "Why do you cry? Why do you cry every single time?" You sat back down next to me, trying to push a reaction out of me. I never turned to look at you. You never stopped looking at me. I took a breath.
"When you touch me, it's like..." I still didn't look at you. I couldn't. I could feel your annoyance growing inside of you. "It's like..." I continued. But the words wouldn't come out.
"WHAT?" You jumped off the couch, towering over me again. "IT'S LIKE WHAT?" Your voice, which used to be so soft, so soothing, like those times you'd wrap me in a blanket after long hours of you touching me and me crying, was now harsh, dark, like my worst nightmare.
"Tell me. Tell me," you begged, you pleaded. You sat, then stood, then sat. You became impatient. You wanted me to look at you, to feel your love, your endless, unyielding, infinite love. You wanted me to not cry, to not fear the comforting feel of your touch. But, I couldn't. I couldn't look at you or stop crying at your touch.
"It's like..." I tried again, still not looking at you. Minutes passed. I never finished my sentence.
"I can't do this." You sighed. "I can't be with you. You cry, you cry so much." You sighed again. I could hear the shaking of your lips. I could hear the trembling of your chin. I could hear your heart beat. "I can't stay with you anymore. It's...it's over."
I heard you walk toward me. I heard you sit by me.
I felt your hand coming toward my face, but you never touched me. I heard you walk out the door. I heard you walk down the stairs. I heard your car start. I heard you leave.
In the silence of my room, I sat, still not looking up, constantly looking down. Looking at my palms, at the floor, at my feet.
"When you touch me, my heart wells up," I whisper, "my skin burns, my toes curl. It's like, you're touching me to comfort me, because you're leaving me." I blink. I blink again.
"It's like you're leaving me," I say a little louder.
"It's like YOU'RE LEAVING ME," I scream.
But you never heard me say it.
You never heard me say it at all.
But, I think deep down, you knew.
But, what you never knew, is that even though I hated being touched... I loved you.
And now, I cry more than I have ever cried before, because you left me, and you won't ever touch me again.