I’m not good at much.

I’m not good at much.
I get nervous at the idea of interaction;
I trip and stutter over my words
As I fumble to say just the right thing,
Trying not to be too much, but just enough.

I can’t hold eye contact for long,
Fearing that someone will see just beyond
What my irises try to cover: a spoiled mind.
Or maybe it’s building connections
That makes unease fill my bones.

I don’t have much authority in my voice
And maybe even less back bone.
I’m not very funny, I don’t give speeches
Or life advice without second guessing.
It’s words that seem to fail me most.

But what I see is what makes the difference.
The small changes in behavior like
The crinkles in the corner of your eyes
Or how your shoulders shrug
With the weight of an unneeded guilt.

It lies within what I hear and how I listen,
Temporarily letting your baggage weigh on me
As you talk and talk, telling stories about
Things no one else bothered to listen to.
Listening to laughter, fears, and cries.

And even in all of my awkwardness,
I’d let it go and pull you into a gentle embrace
So that my arms build a protective wall
Around the person I so desperately
Want to protect against their own world.

I’m not good at much
Besides giving time to people I care about
So that their burdens become my burdens,
Wiping away their sadness and tears,
And giving them chance to feel free.