To Take, To Hold, To Keep.

I do not know what to do with open hands.

They stretch toward me, fingers curled in offering,

and I shrink back, spine stiff, throat tight,

like a stray dog too long without kindness,

like a child who has learned that gifts come with debts.

*

I do not know how to take without tallying,

without weighing the weight of every kindness,

without whispering to myself, you didn’t earn this,

you should have done it alone,

you should have bled for it first.

*

I was made for the uphill battle,

for scraped knees and clenched fists,

for clawing at the edges of my own endurance,

so when the rope is tossed down,

when the door is held open,

when the world says, here, take this,

I hesitate—

because I have only ever trusted what I bled for.

*

But I am so tired.

My hands ache from carrying the weight of my own worth,

and still, I fight to lift it up, alone.

Still, I whisper, I can do it, I can do it, I can do it

until the words crack like dry leaves in my throat,

until the ground beneath me trembles,

until I collapse under the weight I refuse to set down.

*

And still, the hands remain, waiting.

I’m learning that some parts of the world do not take back what they have given.

The rope dangles, the door stands open,

and I, stubborn and weary and undeserving,

reach out, just this once—

and take

what I so desperately need.