I'm full of holes.
You'll try to love me, everyone does.
They try to love me in so many ways.
They think that they can hold me and wrap me up and cover what's clearly missing.
They think that they can look past any gaps I have and focus on the parts of me that are complete and just never look elsewhere.
They think that they can fill the cavities with trinkets and treasures and gestures and words, words that turn out to be just as empty as I am.
They think that they can accept them and love them for what they are and I thought I could too.
But the reality is, they are holes and there just isn't anything there to love.
So no matter how much you want to love me, I will never be able to support you because I am brittle and incomplete. I will always leave people with the feeling that something is missing.
That thing that is missing is me.

There's a hole in my wall,
It's been there a while.
You ask why it's there,
And I nervously smile.
You offer to fix it,
I politely decline.
It doesn't need fixing,
It's perfectly fine.
I like it there,
But you still insist.
If that hole weren't there,
I wouldn't exist.
You won't give in,
You are rudely persistent.
You assure me that,
It'll be fixed in an instant.
Do you fix it for me,
Or is it only for you?
Now there are left,
Not one hole, but two.