The Touch That Does Not Count

The house is quiet, but your body is still braced for the touch that shrinks you. You flinch when the hand comes near, convinced it is only measuring your failure, counting the pounds you gained while trying to survive the stress.

You have turned your own skin into a crime scene, waiting for the verdict. But listen — there is a touch that does not count.

There is a love that does not inspect you for damage before it draws near. The light does not reach for your waist to check your size; it reaches to remind you that you are held.

You are not a problem to be managed or a body to be judged. You are a person to be loved.

The hand that hovers over you in the dark is not looking for weight; it is looking for a way to carry you.