Touch

Image Source: Pixabay

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You know too much of everything,
But too little of touch,
Or why she recoils
And every extended hands feels like a trap.

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They do not tell you,
When she's 13,
That a palm under her shirt,
Travelling upward,
Can leave a bruise,
Without hitting.

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A bruise she only can see,
When she's 25,
Or 30,
It's true what they say,
Age is but a number.

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Last night we stayed awake,
Googling the various meanings of consent,
To remind her,
It wasn't her fault.

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Original Poetry by me