Nothing left

I have nothing left to give. 

I have spent my life handing out 

pieces of myself because I was taught

that I don't matter. 

I became a haven, a shelter 

for broken people who needed fixing. 

They come battered, broken, alone 

just like me. 
 

And I clean them up, heal their wounds,

create a bespoke version of myself 

tailored to fit their every need 

until they are shiny and new. 

And then they don't need me anymore. 

 

And every time I watch with pride 

as they spread their newly patched wings, 

filled in with bits and pieces of myself;

only for them to fly far away, so eager to forget 

the time that they were broken, 

so eager to forget me. 
 

And I am left on the ground, wasting away. 

While they forget, I remember. I collect them all,

bitter memories of people I once loved. 

People that left and took those pieces of me with them.

And like The Fool, every time I believe them. 

When they tell me they're different, 

when I feel that we are inseparable, 

when I forget where I end and they begin. 

You would think that by now I'd have run 

out of naïveté, patience, or self. 

But every time I think my well has run dry,

that I have nothing left to give of myself, 

another broken baby bird comes along

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