Hands That Never Learned to Hold

He built shelves that never held books,

fixed hinges that creaked but never opened.

His hands—

calloused, steady,

never reached for mine.

He showed love like a shadow:

there, but never warm.

Like the wind that dries your tears

but never asks why you cried.

I learned to hug myself

in the corners of rooms he passed through.

A presence of silence,

his footsteps always louder

than his words.

I remember the cracked leather belt

he hung beside the door—

not as threat,

but as memory.

A relic from a man raised on

"boys don’t cry"

and

"you’ll be a man when you stop needing."

But I needed.

God, I needed—

a lap to curl into,

a “good job” after scraped knees,

a hand to hold

when the thunder scared more

than just the sky.

Instead, I got tools.

Screwdrivers in stockings.

A wrench for a birthday gift.

Build it.

Fix it.

Don’t feel it.

Even now, I flinch

at affection,

like it's a language I forgot

before I ever learned.

My lover reaches for me,

and I freeze—

a statue built from old rules

and unfinished apologies.

But I’m learning.

I’m learning to loosen

my grip on what I never received.

To forgive hands

that didn’t know softness

because they were taught

only how to survive.

Now, I hold my son’s hand

like it’s glass and gold—

fragile and holy.

He asks, “Why do you always hug me?”

and I whisper,

“Because I never learned how to be held.”

But I’m teaching myself

with every embrace.

Because love,

even when fumbled,

is still a language worth learning.