You were a wreck.
And I thought if I held you long enough,
you’d stop falling apart.

So I gave you everything.
Time.
Sleep.
My ******* peace.
My dreams shrank so yours could fit in the room.

I kept saying “we’ll heal together.”
But only one of us got better.
And it wasn’t me.

You started glowing again.
And I started fading.

You smiled more.
And I forgot how.

I spent all my energy
filling in your holes
without ever noticing
I was bleeding out.

You grew strong
by drinking from what I didn’t know was vital.
And when you finally felt whole,
you looked at me
like you didn’t recognize what was left.

I was a shell
with your name carved into the inside.
And you walked away
like I was never your home at all.