The Body Knows First

We were talking about something hard

and my hands started shaking.

Mid-sentence. Mid-word.

In the middle of trying to explain

something that mattered.

I looked down and saw them

trembling like they were cold,

like they didn't belong to me,

like my body had decided

to announce

what my mouth was still trying to hide.

I couldn't stop it.

I put them in my lap,

crossed them,

gripped one with the other,

but they kept shaking.

The shake was visible.

There was no hiding it.

The other person saw.

Of course they saw.

I was sitting across from them

with my hands vibrating

like I was terrified,

like I was devastated,

like my body was refusing

the lie I was trying to tell

with my voice.

My hands knew before I did.

My hands were honest

when I was still negotiating

what to admit.

This is the thing about having a body—

you can't control the tell.

You can't manage the shake.

You can't pretend you're fine

when your hands are doing this,

when your voice is doing this,

when everything physical

is contradicting

what you're trying to say.

I finished the sentence anyway.

Pretended the shaking was nothing.

But we both knew

my body had already

told the truth

my words were still dancing around.