Flesh

I keep giving away my flesh

to feed the people

who are no longer mine to keep.

I always remind myself,

This is it.

I won't give my flesh to anyone anymore.

But every time someone knocks on my chest,

I start giving pieces of myself away again.

Even though the people I have lost

had enough of their own flesh to stay alive,

they still looked for mine.

Maybe because my flesh

carried the taste of misery.

Maybe because it was made of

deep empathy for others

and self-hatred for my own skin.

I keep offering them my flesh,

and now all I have left are bones.

And it hurts,

even though there is almost nothing left of me to give.

But seeing them give away

what was once mine

to the people they love

makes the skin I once had

burn with something I cannot name.

And I cannot do anything about it,

because I was the one

who offered them everything

when I had nothing.

I am afraid that if another person comes,

I might not have anything left to offer them.

My flesh was taken,

piece by piece,

by the people who were once mine to keep,

the people who promised

they would stay forever.

And now I have nothing to offer anyone.

I don't hate myself

for giving too much.

I hate that I gave so much

that I am left with nothing

but bones.

And I am afraid

that when someone comes looking for my flesh again,

I won't have anything left to give.

I wrote this a while ago. If any part of it resonates with you, I hope you know you're not alone. This is for anyone who has ever given so much of themselves to others that they forgot they deserved to be cared for, too. You deserve the same love, patience and understanding you so freely give to others. ❤️