My parents never touched,
their own frayed edges 
brushing occasionally by
almost accident but never 
grasping strong with hands
that really meant it. I never
wondered about it. My 
normal was their far-away
barely there frailty, in
a cage they built in 
childhood. My empty 
hands didn’t know where
to go with their reaching,
even pudgy knuckled, so
I kept them closed. 

Closed, I left myself out-
side, forgetting finding 
me needing touch to 
give me somewhere to
connect, someone to
love who knew my 
name. I forgot to be 
born. They killed me but
didn’t mean to. Man-
slaughter. Slain alive,
breathing without 
oxygen, flailing around
in the deep end with
no way to swim. 

Bony-knuckles open 
I can spread my
palms and choose.
Interesting how 
much I need to be
touched to want life,
to see life as life instead 
of something involving
action but little 
meaning, small love
and bland step behind
step. I can swim and 
snuggle and twirl and
be a person who
wants to be here.
Because love is not a
theory, but a hug when
I cry in a dark room.