You used to admire my soft, delicate hands.
You said I was like a princess who never had to work.
You did all the work for me,
for everyone around you.
You spoiled us like royalty.
I grew older.
I became you.
My hands are no longer soft and delicate.
They are covered with calluses.
I often touch the calluses on my hands and wonder,
if I’d rather be the naive princess or the hardworking daughter.
I’d often wonder if my hands stayed soft and delicate,
if your hands would become coarser; your heart heavier.
My hand touches yours.
I won’t let go.