Belong

There are few things I find
more uncomfortable
than direct human contact.
Hugs are manageable;
but I cannot handle
having my neck brushed;
ideally, I'd stay untouched:
with me, it's
clean the site of contact
or be stained -
ingrained -
in this subtle,
aggravating way.

So much does contact complicate
that I guide family hands away -
avoid the chance of finger-dances
of the arm, and - yes - the face;
I grit my teeth or duck away
from skin-love's gross precipitate,

but you?

Lover, you
get my skin
into flames
at all ends -

and your hands?  -
all but wrong:

I am where
they belong.