Don't try to put your hand in mine. My fist is closed; I'm hanging on too tightly. To handles of hope or thin air. Or I'm waiting for my nails to leave crescent moons on my palms in a tiny, perfect, red row. I'll look down and point - I thought I had something there. Perhaps I did, at one time. My hand is clenched and I'm afraid to loosen my grip. Afraid to fall into the dark bellows. I can't see them, but I'm as certain they exist as my handles of hope. 50/50 probability, perhaps they cancel each other out and I'm just floating with tired, clamped fists. Don't try to put your hand in mine; I can't let go; I can't hold on.
Don't try to lead me. My eyes are closed and I refuse to open them. I can't see you in front of me. I'm listening to instructions louder than yours. Their whispers come in spurts, barely audible, but they, and the space in between, drown out your good intentions at any volume. I'm protecting us. From saying yes to paths I know are wrong and from saying no to paths I think are right. The confusion that follows when I don't listen closely enough. To myself. You'll feel it, too. You'll look around and I won't be behind you. I'll leave you standing alone. Or worse, I'll stand there in tears and we won't understand why. Don't try to lead me; I don't know you are there.
I'm waiting. For the burst. The explosion. Potential turned kinetic with a catalyst, it all soars upward and then falls into place. Where I can stand still in the present, look around and smile. Stop preparing, creating, craving, starving for this change. That takes its time getting here. This place of mine, this space of mine. To softly place my identity. To say this is who I am and this is how I choose to grow. To say I belong here. I'll put out a welcome mat and hang a wreath on my front door. I'll slip my hand into yours and ask, "Where shall we go?"
