It has always been easier
to be the hands

To be the one who reaches,
who anticipates,
who memorizes the shape of others’ silence
and fills it before they have to ask

I know how to study hunger
I know how to recognize pain
I know how to plate comfort
and to serve it quietly
I know how to make myself useful,
how to fold my love into small, practical corners
so it doesn’t inconvenience anyone

But when you turn towards me,
when your hands are the ones reaching,
something in me forgets its language

I go still
I go awkward
I start searching for instructions
that were never written

It’s not that I don’t feel it
It’s not that I don’t want it
It’s that receiving feels like standing
in a room with no furniture,
no armor,
no exit sign glowing red behind me

When you do something for me,
my chest tightens like I’ve been called on
without studying for the test of being loved
I don’t know where to put my eyes
I don’t know what face to make
I don’t know how to hold joy
without immediately trying to repay it

Because, let’s face it,
giving is control
Giving is safe
Giving lets me measure my worth in effort

Receiving is exposure
Receiving is trust without a ledger
Receiving is letting you see
how desperately I want it

So if I hesitate,
if my reaction comes out smaller than you
hoped,
if I fumble the moment in my nervous hands,
please know
there is a part of me
fighting tears behind my ribs

Please know
I am not unimpressed
I am overwhelmed

You are touching part of me
that learned love as labor,
not as gift
And I am trying
I am trying to believe
that I do not have to earn
what you are placing gently
into my open, trembling palms

for mason
spring of 2026