Where Her Hands End and Her Voice Begins

Her hands know everything love should know.

They find my back

like instinct,

press gently like prayer,

like muscle memory in a world made of bruises.

She tucks the blanket around my knees

before I even realize I’m cold.

She hands me a glass of water

just before my throat remembers its thirst.

She says nothing

but her actions say: I notice you.

I read you like scripture.

I know your edges and I want them whole.

She holds my face the way you’d hold a wild bird

gently,

just enough to keep it from flying,

but never enough to cage it.

And when I cry,

she doesn’t flinch.

She just wipes my cheeks

with the sleeve of her hoodie

like she’s been rehearsing for this moment her whole life.

Her timing is always perfect.

She doesn’t knock

she just knows when to show up.

And when the world falls apart,

she doesn’t offer a speech,

she just…

brings soup.

Or chocolate.

Or silence.

She knows when I need her to disappear beside me.

To just be there.

Breathing.

But her mouth

her mouth speaks a different language.

One her hands don’t understand.

Her words

don’t match her touch.

They cut sideways,

like broken glass in a gentle stream.

They say things like:

“You overreact.”

“You’re imagining things again.”

“God, it’s not a big deal.”

And somehow,

it always becomes my fault

for being wounded

by a blade she wears & swears she never swung.

She tells me,

“You twist my words.”

Like my ears are liars.

Like my feelings are a storm

she refuses to forecast.

And still

her hands remain soft.

She’ll rub my shoulders after

like she didn’t just unmake me.

Like love can be stitched back together

with a back rub and a movie night.

She’ll curl up beside me on the couch,

pull my legs into her lap,

and ask what I want to watch

as if my silence isn’t a collapsed bridge

between us.

She never sees the ash.

Only the flowers she thinks she planted.

I live in the contradiction.

The split.

The ache of being held

by someone who speaks in storms

and touches like spring.

And I wonder

how many women before me

she’s loved like this

with her hands like lullabies

and her words like warnings.

And Then I Finally Speak

One night,

I tell her:

Your hands say stay,

but your words say run.

And I no longer know which one to trust.

I tell her

how I carry her voice inside me

longer than her touch.

How apologies don’t matter

when the bruises are invisible

but still shape the way I stand.

I tell her:

Just because your touch is kind

doesn’t mean your language isn’t cruel.

That love is not just what you do

it’s also what you say

when you think I won’t remember it in the morning.

I say:

Don’t gaslight me with your warmth.

Don’t tell me I’m “too much”

and then hold me like I’m everything.

I say:

If you’re going to love me

really love me

let your voice match your touch.

Let your words cradle me

instead of carving me open.

And for the first time,

I see her hands

hesitate.