Hollow Hands

By Amna Salman

I try to be kind.

God, I try.

Smile stitched on like a suit and tie.

Ask the right questions, nod in place,

Hold their sorrow with a porcelain face.

But it slips.

The cracks show.

My voice too flat, my pace too slow.

Their grief spills out—I watch it pool,

And I play the part, but I’m no fool.

Because deep inside, there's nothing there.

No pull of pity, no urge to care.

I mimic warmth, a shadowed script,

But even my sympathy comes tightly zipped.

I forget the details.

Mix up the names.

Their tragedies blur into quiet shame.

They call me sweet. They say I "see"—

But if they knew, they'd run from me.

Because I don't care.

Not truly, not loud.

My heart stays quiet beneath the crowd.

Empty hands, routine replies—

My soul tuned out behind my eyes.

But then—

When the dark comes soft and slow,

And no one asks, and nothing shows—

I dream.

And in dreams, I care.

I bleed for strangers in burning air.

I run into fire to pull them free,

I scream, I cry, I finally feel me.

There, I am the kindness I fail to fake.

There, the ache is real, the silence breaks.

But daylight comes, and the mask resets,

And I’m back to giving with no regrets—

Except the one I never say:

That all this help

Is just a play.

By Amna Salman