To Hold

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.