I never meant to hold your hand
not like that, not for long.
But you held on far too tightly,
fingers locked like chains, clutching as if letting go would mean losing yourself.
And I tried to pull away, quietly, gently at first.
But the more I resisted, the tighter you grasped-until your love became a tourniquet.
Your grip cut through my flesh,
burst blood vessels deep beneath skin,
left bruises no one else could see,
pain I couldn't name out loud.
Still, I stayed.
Still, I let it happen.
Maybe I thought you'd loosen.
Maybe I feared the tearing more than the hold.
And then, suddenly, you let go.
Just like that.
No warning, no softness,
just absence where your hand used to be.
Now, my hands are swollen,
aching with the memory of pressure.
I can't hold anything else
not love, not comfort, not trust.
Everything slips through these trembling fingers that once held too much for too long.
And though you're gone,
your grip still lingers in the way I flinch when someone reaches for me.
