Soft hands around me

Soft Hands Around Me

since the sandbox days, since glitter glue and scraped knees, i’ve always felt hands, not mine— reaching, hovering, soft, like i’d crack if someone forgot to whisper.

elementary desks too big for me, not my size or my mind, but the way they saw me. “be careful with her.” like i was glass. like i wasn’t one of them. like i wasn’t whole.

and it hasn’t stopped. almost 23. almost something, but not in their eyes. still the kid they cradle with voices too gentle, steps too soft, like i might fall apart if they didn’t handle me just so.

maybe it’s me. maybe i seem like i can’t do this on my own. like i’m not loud enough or big enough to take up space. but it’s not true. it’s not. i write the way i wish i could speak— sharp, clear, full. i know who i am here, where they can’t interrupt with “are you okay?” and “do you need help?” like i don’t know how to stand.

maybe they see timid where i see thoughtful. maybe they see small where i see steady. but what i don’t see— what i can’t understand— is why they think i’m less.

do they think i’m fragile? a porcelain doll, painted eyes and hollow bones? do they think i’m weak? tiptoeing around me, always cushioning the world so i won’t bruise? or do they just not see me at all?

i don’t know. i might never know. but i’ll keep writing because when i do, their soft hands fall away, and i feel my own.