I have old, scuffed-up sneakers.

Most of my clothes are cheap and used.

I am wrapped in other people’s worn-out imperfections—

fabric softened by lives that were not mine.

They are worn down and tired,

and still I keep them.

They support me.

They cover me.

Am I cheap for not buying new things?

Is money the only thing stopping me?

Or is it fear stitched into the seams?

My sister grew up the same way—

proof that two hands can leave the same house

and reach for different things.

She spends money on clothes she likes.

I am crippled by the thought of spending mine.

I work forty hours every week

and still feel poor—

not only in wallet,

but in worth.

I’m told I don’t do enough

in all the areas of my life,

so I reach out for More.

I call to it—

“Jump. I will catch you.”

My hands lift with aspiration,

aching to grab hold

and prove I need nothing else

to succeed.

But More slips.

My breath hitches.

Not dread in my belly—

failure.

Tears sting my eyes,

and still I cannot look away

from where More used to stand.

I look at my hands.

Soft and pale to the eye,

but hidden places are dry and red with irritation.

A burn mark, too.

No one knows these things

from a single glance

or touch.

Touch.

I thought I was ready

to touch More.

My hands were right there,

reaching—

and somehow they missed.

I look down

to where More should be lying.

But I wake.

My hands do not miss.

First, the tips of my fingers find their arms.

Then slowly, each finger secures itself to skin.

My palm braces for impact

as my grip wraps around the wrist

that is More.

I feel the drop—

the weight not yet my own

dragging downward.

I lean forward

to soften the blow.

My arm stretches

as if there are four extra inches to spare.

My grip tightens.

I pray I do not bruise

the one who trusted me

to catch them.

Can I hold on

with these tired hands?

Even as my grip slips

and steadies—

slips

and steadies?

I have old, scuffed-up sneakers.

Most of what I own is off-brand and used.

I am covered in worn-out imperfections—

mine and others’.

They are tired.

And still they support me.

They cover me.

It is enough.