Unclenched Fists
Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe
I held on too tightly.
For years, my hands were small altars
to everything I could not save.
Knuckles white,
nails carved half-moons into skin,
palms blistered with devotion.
I called it love,
but it was fear wearing tenderness like a mask—
the terror of what might happen
if I ever loosened my grip.
So I clutched harder.
Until blood slicked my lifeline,
until the weight of what I carried
became heavier than what I’d lost.
I thought that holding on
was the same as being held.
I was wrong.
One day, the ache became too quiet to ignore.
The body has its own mercy—it tires.
And in that exhaustion,
I opened my hands.
Slowly.
Reluctantly.
Like a prayer unraveling.
Dust rose from my palms,
fragments of what I had worshipped—
splinters of hope,
shards of apology,
the echo of a voice I’d waited a lifetime to hear.
The wind took them all,
scattershot into a sky too vast for regret.
And for the first time,
my hands didn’t hurt.
They trembled, yes,
but they were light.
Now, when I look at my palms,
I see no blood, no proof, no promise—
only space.
And I’ve learned that space
is what healing looks like
when it finally arrives.
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Poetry Anthologies by Britt Wolfe:
