skeleton

You said you needed space, so I made myself smaller. Emptied myself out and gave you pieces of me, in hopes to make you stay. Cracked my ribs so you could have my lungs to help you breathe, but you only laughed. It was not enough, you asked for more. More room and less me. So I kept going until I was hollow, until my heartbeat was the only thing left to rattle my bones and shake my core. I gave it to you, I told you I loved you, and I promised to be smaller if only you stayed. But you held it, heavy in your hands and said you didn’t have room for two. And now I am empty, pieces of me scattered outside of my body. Starving with no way to feel full.