I am used and reused.
Like a deck of cards, I have become worn.
I am tearing apart at the edges and my color is fading.
Parts of me have become lost.
52 becomes 50 which soon becomes 40.
I am burning myself out for the sake of others.
Does their pleasure justify my pain?
I always put them first,
But to them,
I am just a deck of cards
Something to play with,
Put away,
Forget about,
And replace.
In my heart, I know this to be true,
But it doesn’t change a single thing.
I stay hidden away in the darkness of a drawer,
One that is impossible to leave,
And I wait for them to use me again.