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