I want your hands off. I want your fingers still. Please, stop peeling these excuses like band aid wrappers, stop pretending like placing them on my skin has ever been more to heal me than yourself. Look,
please, I know. I know, but you can’t spill the war and then plead me guilty for fighting in it. Your words are in the tilt of my spine every time I feel like no one will ever be able to love me lasting, and sometimes they hurt in all the ways a person can give me something I can never give back. But look, don’t cry burden under me, carry me like a wounded soldier on your heaving shoulders. I am so much more
than what you aren’t actually holding up. I am so much more than what you think you’ve damaged. See, I’m no stranger to battle zones, I’ve fought and I’ve loved and I’ve broken into strength in ways that make me into the person I am standing here today.
No stranger to heartbreak warfare, I’m still tender in ways that allow me to recognize palms that my heart doesn’t need to stay. And
I want your hands off, I want your fingers still. Your mind elsewhere. And I want your aching-to-mend limbs’ distance. Your far, your go. Your about you. Your always been about you. Your still about you. And please, go.