Slime

Slime runs down your back with a viscous slowness. You can't really place the sensation, your torn between thinking of it as jelly on a day that could be attributed to hallucinogenic slumber and as just slime on a day when reality hits you in the eye with a flourescent epiphanic slam! Slime runs down your back with a viscous slowness.
Being framed by white lights is not helpful when all you are trying to do is hide away from predatorial, lecherous looks. Looks that don't stop with being predatorial, looks that transcend the quiet private space of internal and become touches. They step out of their own darkness and stretch, grow at a scary pace and become touches. No one seems to notice them, but they are there always rearing their heads when you think your imagination was running wild.
You react to touch so differently. Sometimes you arch your back, but that touch is something you want; you invite that touch and direct it to where you want it most. Sometimes you lean into it and let it comfort you. Sometimes you shrink back and try not to scream, you hold back tears of revulsion as these touches invade your bubble of sanity and dirty you. Your left with a stain that you don't quite know how to erase. You wash it off, scald your skin, and yet it stays.
The stain grows inward, and burns into memory. Sometimes in the dark of dreamless sleep it bursts into existence, with the same starkness as the white lights. You learn to live with it. Somehow, you just learn to live with it