Heartbreak

Little Dear 

It’s not you, it is everything.
It’s the past, it’s the future,
it’s the moments in between.

It’s the invisible weight bearing down.
The fake smiles to hide the hurt. 
The battles that can never be won. 

Round and round, the restless feeling 
where you’re constantly trying.
Battling, flailing, fighting, surviving. 

What is there left to give? 
What is left inside of me? 
What is left of me?

Be strong, little dear, for you have so much more to see. 

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Empty

Slightly burnt, with crusts a little too thick. 

The last of the butter, evenly spread.

A little sweeter, perhaps? Too bland otherwise. 

Is there anything left in the cupboard? 

Jam, marmite, lemoncurd?

Maybe the marmite. 

Some will hate but others will love. 

They’ll say the taste is too strong. 

Lingers. 

They’ll have their opinions. They’ll say. 

But still they will take, despite their talk. 

And when there’s nothing left, they’ll move onto the next,

leaving nothing but a few crumbs and an empty shelf.