The Damage I Excuse

Why do I let you in
when every part of me knows
what follows after?

Why do I set myself aside
like something temporary,
something disposable,
just so you can feel whole
for a moment longer?

I tell myself no, not again.
Like a prayer repeated
so many times
the words lose meaning.
Yet every warning sign
becomes something I excuse,
every sharp edge
something I convince myself
won’t cut this time.

But it always does.

You speak in double-edged persuasion,
soft enough to sound like care,
sharp enough to leave wounds
I pretend not to notice
until I’m alone again.

And somehow
my feelings become medicine for you
while I decay in the background,
grinding myself down
like stone beneath constant waves,
chipping away at the remnants
I still have left
of who I used to be.

I keep handing you pieces of me
because seeing you smile
feels worth the damage
for a second.

But I’m beginning to realize
there’s only so much of a person
you can carve away
before there’s nothing left
to give.