I have poured myself
into gardens not my own - 
watering roots,
feeding soil,
watching petals open
under the sun of my care.

And they bloomed.
God, they bloomed.
People smiled.
Lives softened.
Things grew.

But no one asked
how much I had left.
No one saw
the slow leak in my tank,
the hollow echo
that grew louder
each time I gave
without replenishing.

Love is not a transaction - 
I know this.
I never give to get.
But I am not a bottomless well.
Even oceans dry
when fed by no river.

There is nothing left
for me to give right now.
I am tired
to the bones of my soul.
Tired in ways
sleep can’t fix.

I’ve been the rain.
Now I must become the root.
I’ve been the sun.
Now I must seek its warmth.

So I’m turning inward.
Reaching into the void
with gentler hands.
Filling my own cup
drop by drop.

This is not bitterness.
It’s not a closed door.
It’s love -
just not the kind you’re used to.
It’s love that starts here,
inside me,
for me.

If you’ve known my love,
you know its weight,
its passion,
its power.
Imagine, then,
what it might do
when I give it
to myself.

I’m choosing me now.
Because I deserve love,
as much as the next.
And I’m done
pretending otherwise.

~ Teri ~