Millions of hands touch me every day. I can feel their sweat, fat and fingerprints. Some people squeeze me so tightly that they feel more solid than I. Others are so gentle I wonder what had taken their strength. Contrary to the popular belief of, “bicycles need to be ridden” and “guitars need to be played”, I do not like being touched. Yet, every day I endure millions of hands, squeezing and grabbing me every day. It is true what they say you know, I am very dirty. But don’t blame me! It is those millions of hands that corrupt my shine, my glimmer. Maybe they should have hand sanitizer stations next to me and everyone like me, although that would be A LOT. All I can do is be still, every day and think about hands. What more is there? I know the wooden plank attached to me is still very much a tree. I can feel the energy that once was, before being cut down, filed, and shaped. I am attached to a dead tree, being groped by hands day in and day out. I have seen others like me that are happy with their duty, like the other one across the hall lights up and makes some weird squeaky sound every time a hand gropes it, but I just stay silent until it’s over. I am a
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