lying hands and well intentioned fingertips

I am the moon
sometimes i think of myself as a white rose bud
amidst a ever expansive sky
a splattering of black paint around my centre
and i am lost
standing forwards yet pulled backwards
there are hands against my silk back
which gently stop me from bumping backwards
and they never let go
I can feel a slight tug behind the tip of my stem
and i know i should turn around
now overwhelmed
black paint splatters from the tip of a paintbrush
everything intentionally made of the colour black
the palm lingering, holding me in place
keeping me from falling, reverting
feels so nice, protective and ever so safe
oh, but what if my senses deter me?
the gentle hand which feels comforting
is deceiving my inner spirit
and speaks to me of a lie
my satin skin is now aligned with a cunning storyteller
telling me tales, nice words and nice feelings
warming palm against my ever satin skin
I can feel and hear a slight tug
at the tip of my tail
reminds me of when i was hurting
released from the tender ground
nails of fingertips are accidentally
hurting my soft and green skin
pulling slightly, hurriedly and with urgency
I hate the inconsiderate tugging
and yet the holding still soothes me
and even though i am hating the black
and wishing i could leave
the lying hands keep the subtle pressure
behind my white satin skin
whilst the well intentioned, annoying fingertips
are scared to strengthen their grip
they want me to reverse, slide on backwards
away from the cunning hands, the dark
but too much tugging and my stem will surely be broken
they leave me standing, floating, sitting
unable to move home
and escape the ever plentiful black