Untouchables

 
 
 
 
 
I have a friend
who has this
embarrassment.
She doesn’t like to be touched
by men.
Even their groping eyes
sear into her skin,
she says,
make her cringe, unable
to think or move or be.
She dresses in unflattering
layers, drab shades
for added protection.
She scuttles in public, peering
ahead and back,
desperate to hide her presence
from all who might stare,
or glare,
dare to apply an
unwelcome hand.
My friend doesn’t mind
her idiosyncrasy.
She wishes the world would be
more kind, more glad
to accept, embrace (without touching)
the way she has been made.
.
.
.
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