Sometimes,
I can hold love in my hand,
Like a teacup, delicate
Something to hold dearly
And just as often,
I hold love like a vice grip
Crushing it under my fingers
Not realizing I was holding a butterfly
Or paper heart
Wiping my hands clean after
Loss of love leaving stain
Sometimes, not often enough,
I have been the butterfly,
or paper heart
Needing teacup hands
But finding vice grips
And greasy fumbling fingers.