If She Was Loved

How beautifully painful.
To have such a soft heart,
Not scared to to pour it out,
Even on those who thought they deserved it.
They’ll leach her dry and she’ll lull of love as they do it.
Until finally.
Finally, it’s been enough, and she’s too weak to lift her arms to pour anything more.
There she’s left to mend herself.
And she does. Without fail.
And prepares to do it again.
Because that’s what her heart does.
It gives. Gives until it breaks.
But oh it tries, and tries, again and again.
Imagine what it could do if she was loved.