Touch

Content warning: Abuse

I wish I were mute.

There is no sequence of words that make sense. Something fundamental sits in between me and every other person, something that twists every sentence into something I don't fully understand.

You can fight it, of course. Play the words out a hundred times in your head, and watch them change slightly every time. Wait for the perfect moment to say it, only for it to never arrive. Get the thoughts out, and they never land.

Or, you can sit in silence, and watch the dread grow with every passing minute. It all goes the same way.

You can lie with words. Most combinations of them will work. Say anything to me, and I'd probably believe it.

There's plenty of other ways to lie as well. I can't read your expression, or hear your tone. Do things in total opposition to each other, and watch me struggle to tell the difference.

The only honest sense is touch. Grab me by the leg, throw me to the floor, show me what you think I'm worth.

The only honest sense is touch. Pin me to the wall, I cannot avoid you now.

The only honest sense is touch. Stick that knife in my face, see what I can do about it.

The only honest sense is touch. Show me that you love me, I don't care how.

I'm enamoured with the thought of a hand for every type of touch. It's not a new wonder, but fresh in the mind once again. There is unavoidable truth in it, painful or joyful as each one might be.

Hit me, I hit you back. Hold me, I hold you back. Don't touch me, or do. We will finally be even, no matter what.

I wish I were mute. My only greater wish is that you are, too.