Sandpaper

Sometimes I think all my nerves endings  must be right on the surface
because I  feel the roughness of the world
like sandpaper rubbing against my skin.

The unwelcome of hurried lives,
the abrupt endings,
and  the sharpness of quick and thoughtless words,
scrape against me,
leaving cuts and scratches that I can't help but take personally. 

I run away and curl up in a protective ball to lick my wounds,
but  loneliness  draws me back out again.
I long for gentleness, for unhurried connection, 
for the slow caress  of attention,  
the  welcome  of thoughtful kindness, 
 and the warm softness of love.