I'm not allowed to be touched, but I'd sure as hell like to be. Photo credit goes to Nathan Dumlao When I was little and watched the neighborhood kids play in the dirt from the sterile, plate-glass window on the front of our big, new house, Mama told me I couldn’t play. I don’t remember how old I was. Two? Three? Not quite old enough to show you a number with my soft fingers when you asked—not that I could use my hands for much else, now or back then. Those days, I had skin as white and thin and sheer as butterfly wings. Mama told me it was beautiful, like gossamer. I didn’t know what gossamer was, but I was mad at the word that apparently meant that I wasn’t allowed to play outside. Nowadays I’m significantly bigger and stronger, but I’m still my mother’s butterfly, soft and fragile. Not to be touched. By anyone, and just barely by my mama and my daddy. ...
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