Don’t Stand So Close To Me

You’re as subtle as a brick in the small of my back.

Photo by Ian Beckley from Pexels

Your hand on my ankle
feels like a brand,
cutting through my skin with
a fork of fiery metal.
I don’t want you to touch me,
and you know this, the boy who
sang me the stupid 80s song at work:
“Don’t stand so close to me,”
whenever it came on.
You admitted that night that you
had always wanted to date me,
and I guess that and whiskey,
is why my permission went out of the
window.

My heart is heavy,
full of the betrayal that
has been so constant this year.
I don’t like being touched,
and I don’t like being betrayed,
and yet here I am,
stuck in between toxic choices again.
You were my best friend,
stupid boy with the greasy hair
and a smile that lights up a room.
I loved you like a sister,
and that’s never fucking enough.