The hands that bind

I told her straight out that I thought she was in hiding.
Her smoothness and the gloss were too neat a cover-up.
I said,
"I feel like I don't know you so well, I want to, but you seem afraid to let anyone in."
Her eyes turned glassy and she bowed her head.

"I'm a private person," she whispered.

I told her, "We all have hidden parts, but I want to know yours and I want to know why you keep it all so buried beneath."

And so the door creaked open a tad.
She told tales, half truths perhaps, still bandaging over those grotesque wounds within.
I heard things that I needed to be verified from her lips. She spoke these things as if she had never let them out for air before.

She stops during a mid-sentence, turns to me and says,
"I don't want you to judge me for this."

Sadness hits me, does she not trust this bond between us?
"I wouldn't have asked, if that was my intention."

And so she continues.

Glass eyes turned to wells and she let out drops that she surely wished I hadn't witnessed.

"This is me, it's me, I don't know how to help myself, and these feelings inside, I cannot control."

"I know how it is to feel such inferior thoughts within, knowing it isn't you."

"I'm just so anxious always, I'm afraid."

"We all are."

This was a back and forth, I listened more than I spoke and when I did offer words they seemed distant and not appropriate for the moment. I think such eloquent thoughts, I know these words so well, the feelings inside all too similar and yet I could not vocalize the only words I have ever known within.

She continues,
"I want to be fun, I am fun, but it's just so scary, you know, after all I've been through."

Since words failed me, and nothing ever seems right when one is pouring out such deepness, I just placed my hand on her knee.
A touch, a connection.

That was all I was looking for, a part of her that she distanced from myself and I wish always to be in constant closeness with the inner workings of the humans that surround me. 
Loneliness and depression creep in when we believe we are the only ones who hold such tension within, but we must realize we are all the same and the hands we have been given are meant to be held, meant to touch, meant to feel. They bind us all together, they hold us when we grieve and love us when that passion strikes.
Our hands do our bidding when no words are needed
or what has been said is just enough,
for the moment.