Please—
do not hand them to me.
Let me reach for them
when I am ready.
Do not give up on me yet.
I am still here.
I will learn the shape of what broke.
I will take my time
sorting what can be kept,
what must be reimagined.
Do not sweep them away.
Do not hide them.
Do not decide their fate for me.
The mess is mine.
I own every fragment before me.
There is strength in these hands—
enough to build
from what remains.
And if time runs thin,
if the clock dares to stop,
I will still do this—
making something truer,
something stronger,
from the pieces
on the ground.