I was once a young girl,
cast aside by my father.
No gift was I to him
instead, merely a bother.

The man who should have been
the first love of my life,
he took half my heart in hand
and cut it with a knife.

For years I denied the theft,
content in my mistrust.
Yet the rest of me died at my own hand,
in leaving my heart to rust.

Ages I spent mourning this death,
never having been more wrong.
Now I see my heart remains,
my true love was me all along.