the american dream

scientists say americans are touch-starved. we only touch each other when we want something. I don't know what I want. years ago, the american dream was this: a house in the suburbs, two point five children and a white picket fence. that dream fell to ash, like the cigarette we shared when I was eighteen and not afraid to touch someone. no one smokes now, but their mouths still taste like nicotine. coffee is still an addiction, like internet porn and your own hand between your thighs, every night. The church told me that is also a sin, so I lost that touch too. I am empty and aching. Are we all this empty? My body is a tomb. in this country, the rich eat abundantly. if you can afford it, you can have anything you like. we, the others, subsist on scraps. food or affection, all feel stolen our stomachs and skins hollow. scientists say americans are touch-starved. we are a country of emotional skeletons. imagine, the american dream: to feel full.