Hands That Never Held Me

They told me
to be strong
before I knew
what soft felt like.

Told me
to stop crying
before they ever
wiped a tear.

Told me
to walk alone
before teaching me
how to trust.

Their hands
never held me.
Not when it mattered.
Not when I shook.

So I built myself.
Out of silence.
Out of stares.
Out of walls.

I became
what they expected.
Silent.
Tough.
Distant.

But inside,
a child still asks,
“Why didn’t you reach for me?”

Why didn’t you see
that strength
was just my mask
and pain
was the face behind it?

Now I hold myself
when no one else will.

I patch the wounds
they never noticed.

And maybe
just maybe
I’ll learn how
to give
what I never got.