through heavy thoughts,

through their hardest times.

My own hands, my own hands, my own hands,

are the only ones I’ve ever felt in life.

My own hands, my own hands, my own hands,

the only ones that ever held mine.

An honest touch,

with true intent,

to offer help,

without demands.

No strings attached,

no hidden price.

My own hands,

keep holding mine.

I ask for nothing in return.

My own hands,

I won’t make her regret giving up her life even more. If I stay at all, it’s so her suffering wasn’t for nothing.

“Maybe you weren’t a terrible person maybe you were just fifteen.”

I wasn’t unlovable. I was a child. But love came with strings, and every hug, every word, was weighed against a condition.

Now I live with their voices screaming, you’re not enough. And I try—God, I try—to prove them wrong. But no matter what I give, the fear is louder.