The things I'm able to embrace.

My arms have forgotten what it feels like
to hold something,
anything,
weight that was more
than pounds and ounces.
They're outstretched in an attempt,
like a safety net,
sifting the air
like it's hiding flecks
of things that matter.
Fingers have the ability to love,
right?
Then why are there stony features
and burning glances
shot to my palms?
'My fingernails aren't knives,'
I want to shout to the silence,
'My hands have held nothing
that can harm you,
I swear.'
My promises turn to flakes
carried by the wind,
but everyone else's arms
are already full.