Unworthy Arms

I reach—
not for hope,
but for something softer than silence,
something warmer than the cold truth
etched in my skin
by hands I never asked for.

I want to be held—
not tightly,
just enough to forget
the way I once was gripped,
torn,
reduced to ruin.

But who holds the broken?
Who loves the stained?
I wear my shame like a second skin—
threadbare, see-through,
yet still too heavy to shed.

I’m the afterimage of a girl
who might’ve been whole
if monsters hadn’t worn human faces.
If comfort hadn’t tasted like control.

Now I stand
on the edge of want—
desperate to be seen,
touched without trembling,
loved without flinching.

But I’m not clean.
Not enough.
Never enough.

So I swallow the ache,
fold my arms around the void,
and whisper to the dark—
“Just pretend
I was someone worth holding”