A Gentle Hand -Mystic-
I almost didn’t make it here.
Not tonight.
Not to this day.
Not to this moment.
Because some days
breathing feels like begging,
and my ribs feel too fragile to hold up the weight of me.
And I don’t tell anyone.
I smile,
In the way glass smiles right before it shatters.
I laugh,
the way a mask laughs when no one’s behind it.
And I pray nobody hears the sound of me cracking.
And then
one day
a hand.
Not a fist.
Not a finger pointing out everything broken in me.
Not a grip trying to drag me where I wasn’t ready to go.
Just a hand.
Gentle.
Steady.
Human.
It touched my shoulder like it wasn’t dangerous to love me.
It reached for mine like I was worth reaching for.
And in that moment
every screaming voice in my head
got quiet.
Do you understand?
That’s what saved me.
Not thunder.
Not fire.
Not some miracle in the sky.
A gentle hand.
A reminder that I wasn’t too heavy,
that I wasn’t too late,
that I wasn’t invisible.
And I learned something that day
gentleness is not weakness.
It’s war.
It’s rebellion.
It’s armor that doesn’t look like armor,
but still keeps you alive.
So now
if I can be that hand for someone else,
if I can steady a shoulder,
hold a palm,
stop a fall
I will.
Because I am still here.
Because somebody, once,
offered me a gentle hand.
And that…
that was enough.
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