Hollow Hands

I held it like a prayer, like something sacred, like something that could save me. I built my world around it, tied my worth to its spine, carved my name into its walls as if that would make me belong. And yet, here I stand, palms open, fingers trembling, watching it slip through— sand through clenched fists, water through cracked earth. I gave it everything. And still, I was not enough. Still, I was the wrong hands, the wrong shape, the wrong name to hold something so bright. I watch others take it with ease, watch them bloom where I have withered, watch them step where I have stumbled. And I wonder if it ever loved me back, if it ever meant to stay. Or if I was always meant to lose it. Meant to love it, and fail anyway.