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My Hands

TL;DR Survivor's guilt This song is me admitting what survival cost me. I had strength. I had will. I spent every breath I had screaming their names, breaking myself against time, against hope, against God—believing that if I gave enough of myself, it would be enough. It wasn’t. I watched them slip through my hands anyway, and the silence that followed learned my name better than anyone ever did. When I say I have blood on my hands, I’m not confessing to violence—I’m confessing to guilt. The kind that doesn’t wash off. The kind that settles into your bones and reminds you with every breath that you lived when others didn’t. I feel their weight constantly. I carry the void they left, and no matter how much time passes, it only grows larger. I was there when the room went cold. I heard the final breath. I felt the exact moment life left their bodies. I stayed strong past the point where hope made sense, and still it meant nothing. Power didn’t matter. Strength didn’t matter. Death took what it came for. The bridge is the truth I struggle with the most: I didn’t kill them—but I survived. And sometimes that feels worse. Their ghosts don’t accuse me with words. They just look at me. Like my existence is the question I’ll never be able to answer. This song isn’t about forgiveness or closure. It’s about living in the aftermath. About walking this world in the place of people who should still be here. I survived—and that’s the curse I carry. This is what survivor’s guilt sounds like when it refuses to stay quiet.