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


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741