Broken when I was young,
when you said you loved me
(and didn’t mean it).
Mended with seams made for ripping.
I begged trust like it was a scrap of food,
and I was the starving orphan at the church window.
She called me a liar, but when you’re not safe enough
what other choice do you have?
Life was a game of keep-away I never understood.
Whenever I was vulnerable enough to take off my mask,
the acidity of life chewed away the soft bits and left behind bone.
(Pliable bone, the kind that could break & without proper care
would mend crooked.)
I gave you all I had, but you still came back starving
with an empty bowl and pleading eyes.