Take my hand

Take my hand, I will hold you tight.

That mask you hold is deep and thick, hiding your true self from all who look.

I see it getting heavier, weighing down on your innocent mind and little body. Those tiny fingers drumming, hands and feet rhythmically moving, discarding the lights, the voices, the noises that cause your pain.

Each day I see that mask more burdensome and harder for you to hold so high.

As they see you screaming, I see you hurting. As they see you flapping your arms, hands, feet; I see your anguish, a gentle mind in an overwhelming world.

Your small hands gripped around my fingers, pulsating as you try to find your calm. Your weary face pressed tight against mine as you fight to ground yourself.

Each day you face a mountain to climb as you venture into a world that expects you to contort and crush yourself into a shape that is sore to fit.

So while they see you crying and trembling, and hunkered down on the floor. I see the exhaustion of trying to adapt even as it pains you to do so.

I see a young mind trying to comprehend how they can conform to this world, trying to keep tight hold of a mask you feel expected to carry.

I see you searching and observing, navigating a path not designed to help you find your way.

And when the mask is heavy, I will be your safe space, always there to hold you up so do not be afraid to let it fall. 

Take my hand, and I will hold you tight.