I promise it isn’t much.
I’ve been rationing myself for years;
a dwindling supply everyone assumes refills itself.
I’m sorry.
I say it before you ask.
I’ve learned to apologize for the gaps in giving,
for the pauses where rest should live,
for the way my well echoes when you look inside it.
Everyone drinks.
No one asks who filled the cup.
I keep waiting for the moment someone notices the cracks;
the way the water disappears faster than I can gather it,
the way I keep offering the glass even when my throat is dry.
I am not endless.
If I sound hollow now,
it’s because no one ever poured back,
only took, and called it love,
and taught me to say sorry for needing anything at all.
Maybe the hardest part is realizing how long I believed emptying myself was the same thing as loving someone.
If this resonated with you, you’re not alone.
