Your Gentle Hands

I’ve been touched by the coldest of hands—
anger and frustration,
lust and temptation in its most evil form.

My temple ruined,
dignity undone,
and my hope for forever lost.

The twisted grasp held me motionless,
unable to escape its reach.

It clung to me unforgivingly,
clawing at my perception of living,
denying me the right to freedom.

These hands were heartless,
convincing me I would never feel anything gentle—
that I was too far beyond repair to be salvaged.

And when I had nothing left—
no worth, no fight—
I was released.

The absence of it frightened me.

Yes, those hands hurt me.

Yes, they did not treat me kindly.
But I believed I would never find anything softer.

Then you came along.

You don’t grab me.
You don’t take.
You offer your hand,
and give me the freedom to decide.

Hesitantly,
I place my hand in yours,
bracing for pain once more.

Yet…

you hold it gently,
your thumb tracing soft circles against my skin—

like it has never been broken.