Giving away pieces of myself like an offering,
carved from supple marrow, tender flesh,
and disillusioned memories.
You took them with open hands,
grateful in the moment but unknown
of the void it left behind,
silently eroding who I once was.
I learned to live empty,
to patch up with fragments,
only to hold myself together with worn resolve.
Still, you look at me and say I am selfish,
for keeping my bones,
the last I still have,
the only thing that lets me stand.
You see the surface, smooth as glass,
never bother looking deep,
missing the cracks down beneath.
You see the gentleness in my touch,
and overlook the violence i had to endure,
to keep my hands from shaking by hurt.
I am the sacrifices you’ll never notice,
carrying wounds I’ll never let bleed in the open,
yet I still am selfish
for refusing to give what remains.