a hand

i walk into rooms

and leave in pieces

a laugh here

a quiet nod there

something of me always stays behind

but nowhere feels like mine

everyone seems to know

what enough looks like

i keep reaching for it

with empty hands

i try harder

but it feels rehearsed

like i am copying a version

of someone who fits

there are faces i stay around

but not one that sees me whole

just fragments reflected back

never the full weight of me

and still

somewhere inside

there is this small stubborn hope

that one day

someone will notice

not the parts i offer

but the parts i hide

and stay