I was built with open hands,

stitched together with warmth,

wired to give, to give, to give —

a sun pouring light into empty rooms,

never asking where the shadows go.

I was made to hold,

to cradle the weight of breaking hearts,

to stitch wounds with whispered kindness,

to be the steady ground beneath trembling feet.

But never the one who is carried.

I bloom in the gardens of others,

rooted in soil I will never call mine,

a ghost in the stories I help write,

a name unspoken when love is returned.

I do not ache for ownership,

only for a place where arms stay,

where warmth is not borrowed,

where love does not leave fingerprints,

then walk away.