Leaking Love

I keep searching for hands.
Hands to hold me.
Not a hand to hold my hand
or a hand to hold my head up.
Not hands locked around my waist.
But hands to carry the messy innards
of me.

Some say anger boils over,
but the stuff overflowing in me is
a sweeter syrup.
It's hope and love and trust
mixed with a spoon of vulnerability.
It pumps through my veins
and the thumps of my heart
whisper to me, asking me
to give it away.

When I find hands I trust,
that feel strong and soft,
I pour myself into them
without a thought.
Many hands have held my love
and many palms still do.
But many hands have opened up their fingers
and let me slip through.

Most hands hold me tight at first.
I keep them warm and sweet.
But then I give too much and they slowly
let me leak.
I try to catch the falling drops.
I tuck them into my folds.
But you can only self-love so much
before a drop gets through
and hits the pavement with a
splat.