I have been the instrument
that required no maintenance.
The hand that steadies rooms.
The eye that reads pressure systems.
The mouth that knows
which words will land where.
For years, I was fluency itself—
adjusting, calibrating, precise.
I am recalibrating now.
There is a word I need: responsiveness—
not the old kind, where I bend toward you,
but the new kind, where I ask
to be bent toward me.
Where my yielding is not
a gift I perform
but a threshold I protect.
The body knew this already.
The body stopped mid-gesture,
the way a tuning fork
stops when the frequency
it was built for
finally enters the room.
My hands go still
not from calculation
but from asking
to be held while they tremble.
There is another word: tenderability—
the capacity to require care
without apologizing for the cost.
Not fragility — strength that refuses
to masquerade as stone.
I am done arranging rooms
for other people's courage.
I want someone to enter
my unsteady architecture
and choose to stay anyway.
Not despite the tremor.
Because of it.
Because they understand —
precision without maintenance
is just another word for breaking
in slow motion.
I am asking to be regarded
while I am still becoming—
not after I've settled,
not when I'm safe to touch.
Now—
While the glass is warm.
While my hand is on the door.
This is the only hardness
that lives.