The Hand That Broke So I Could Heal
IDENTITYSELF REFLECTION
I went into that rage room
with ghosts for company
the kind that still wore my last name.
I swung at silence
like it owed me an apology,
every crack of glass a prayer
that something inside me would shatter, too.
But it wasn’t the barrels that broke
it was my right hand.
The hand that built,
the hand that fought,
the hand that said I’ll do it myself.
Bone turned to language
and told me the truth I kept swallowing
I’ve been holding life too tight.
They call it a boxer’s fracture
fitting,
because I’ve been throwing punches at the past,
hoping the future would duck.
Didn’t know healing had to hit back.
Didn’t know letting go could sting this much.
So I sat with the pain
like it was a message
each finger a note of surrender.
Little finger whispering,
Talk softer next time.
Ring finger humming,
Don’t promise what you can’t hold.
Middle finger still defiant
reminding me that anger’s just grief in armor.
Index finger pointing to a future
that is still possible.
And the thumb, my anchor,
pressed against the pulse that still beats
proving I’m here.
Still.
Learning.
I used to think strength meant steel,
but it turns out it means stillness.
Means being man enough
to admit when something sacred snapped
so something holy could grow.
This hand
the same one that’s thrown, built, written, and loved
will heal crooked,
but truer.
It’ll hold gentler.
It’ll make things that last.
Because sometimes the universe doesn’t whisper
It fractures.
And in that crack between what was
and what’s coming,
It leaves just enough light
to start over.
