I can’t bare touch.
Touching moments between friends, a celebratory embrace.
I can’t face.
Fuck off, it’s my space.
Space that is seldom enough for me.
My universe doesn’t feel vast, it’s tight.
A Plaster-cast.
You know, the ones that hold broken people together.
”Come on let’s have a hug!”
I hear squealed by one of those neurotypical twats.
A quaint insistence by an acquaintance invades my existence.
A hug, what the hell is even that?
So proceeds is a procession of squeezes to various degrees.
180 is my preference.
Why not a curt nod?
Contactless deference.
No difference to them, but all the difference to me.
In the meantime I’ve sought solutions to safeguard my solitude.
Invaders beware,
my beard is full of food.