More Than They Deserve

I care,
until it cuts me open,
until the weight of my giving
turns to chains around my ribs.

Every glance becomes a dagger,
every silence an echo that bruises.
I bleed on the inside—
a flood of feelings I cannot dam.

I give too much.
I hand over my marrow,
my breath, my still-beating heart,
as if they were endless.
They are not.

They take,
and I let them—
because hope is louder than reason,
and I have never learned
how to withhold.

And so I remain,
too much for my own body,
never enough for theirs.
Always more than they ask,
always more than they deserve.

The Secrets of Wynter Rayne