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 ~
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Beautiful poem.