Don’t Touch Me

He put his hand on my shoulder. The rough skin of his palm shattered into me, ripping open my body in jags and kinks, like the edges of continents, crackling out from his fingers. And then, the word I’ve been meaning to say my entire life, each syllable a breath, hot, hard, filled up every wrinkle and crevice in my lips.

— Excerpt from Gadi Cohen’s “Don’t Touch Me,” Bluestocking Magazine Vol. 2.

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