What did I give you?

It’s easier to start with what I didn’t give you:
my physical virginity.

Everything else I left hanging for you on the line like ***** laundry.
***** humility and modesty and mystery and inhibition.
***** self-esteem and individuality.
***** pride. I grew on your skin like moss.
My bones broke.
My body became thin and brittle and when people looked at me all they saw was hollowness and fatigue and dust.
Even my pain was gone. All was numb.
I couldn’t stop running.
My knees fled to the concrete and collided with my ankles.
My mind was like quicksand.
Couldn’t hold anything real inside of it anymore.
I made your left eye and your hips black and blue.

And even now I sound as though I’m taking all the blame.
Never mind the words that wasted me away.