I found her on the floor,
shattered into soft-edged pieces,
her voice quiet like abandoned churches,
her eyes already halfway gone.

She didn’t ask for saving—
but I offered it anyway,
like a fool with a flare in a house full of gas.
“I’ll help you,” I said.
“We’ll fix this together.”

And so I bled into her cracks,
stitched my joy where hers had rotted,
held her shaking hands through storms
that weren’t mine to weather—
until they were.

She learned to smile again.
To sleep. To stand. To bloom.
I watched her become someone whole
from the ashes of someone broken.

But somewhere in that gentle resurrection,
I stopped checking for damage in myself.
Stopped noticing the weight.
Stopped seeing the rot
underneath my ribs.

I poured light into her—
cup after cup—
until the glass in me ran dry.
And she never looked down
to see the dust collecting at my feet.

She mistook my crumbling
for quiet strength.
She kissed the lips of my silence,
never asking why
my hands began to shake.

She left me better than she found me—
because I was nothing by the time she left.
And nothing is easier to walk away from
than someone who once gave you everything
and now has
nothing left to give.