Unclean

Cringing away from any other touch but yours.

A sensation of nausea in the pit of my stomach

With any contact.

Fighting the urge to rub off their touch,

To scrub it from my body.

Longing to walk straight into your arms,

To replace their repulsive touch 

With the only one belonging on my skin. 

Closing my eyes tightly,

Counting my breaths to survive through it.

My mind screaming that it’s wrong...

I don’t want this.

Curling into a ball after,

Silently crying.

Feeling violated and unclean.