My Hands Fall Open

It surfaces like memory—
the kind that arrives
with its hands full.

I see now
how long I’ve been carrying
the things that never belonged to me—
the hairline fractures, the trembling edge
of someone else’s breaking.

When I look inward,
I find a crack of my own—
opening not in fear
but in recognition.

And I wonder
what it would mean
to set one shattered thing down,
to let my hands fall open
and feel the weight leave me?