Open Hands

How do I let go,

When I'd rather guess the shade of beige my knuckles have become,

Squeezing things that don't belong.

Not in my hand,

Not in my mind.

It's nice to say, "Leave it in the past."

But how can I release something

If I can't loosen my grasp?

If my fingernails have sunk into my palms?

It's almost as if my muscles and bones are working against me,

Frozen in place,

In a time I used to be.

Not even my pinky finger will comply.

It is sealed shut

As I pry,

And pry,

And pry.

Brute force is not what I need,

Because my fist has been closed for so long,

It knows only how to punch,

Pierce,

And bleed.

So I take my fist and hold it to my chest.

"Why am I so angry? Why can't I just let it go?"

With the question, my heart begins to race.

Only then do I realize

I am not only angry.

I am scared.

I don't think I'm brave enough to face

What waits for me

In the cave my fingers and palm have become.

Because what if,

When I release the bad,

The good goes with it?

"As long as I'm holding onto something, it's okay... right?" I ask.

"Is it worth holding onto if you're hurting yourself in the process?" my heart pleads.

Let's see.

My fingers inch open,

And I see what the anger and fear were protecting:

A scar that has not yet healed,

In need of light

And air.

But in the dark cave that is my fist

Live ego

And sadness.

They think they are doing what's right,

Holding the wound tight.

But they cause the wound to fester

And keep it from healing.

And the hardest part?

No one can tell you how to rid yourself of them

Except you.

Harm disguised as help.

It takes a leap of faith,

And a decision.

Whether you want to heal,

Or continue living in pain.

It will take time.

I have not fully opened my hand,

But I am learning,

Slowly,

That not everything is mine to carry,

And I can open my hands.