my hands tremble
around something fragile—
this feeling,
us.

i don’t know
how to hold it
without destroying it.

so i drop it.

a word too sharp,
a silence too long,
a doubt
creeping slowly
up from my stomach

and suddenly,
i’m tearing at the seams
of something wonderful
just to see
if it will hold.

but every time i do,
i can feel the insides spilling out.
the stitching giving way,
as it always does.

and i hate myself
for being unable to love
without breaking
all at once.