Like there’s pieces of me in all the places I’ve been.
I remember writing a poem once, to a girl I was in-Like with
It asked how she gave herself to so many people and didn’t loose herself in them.

That poem became just another letter I never sent
Because too many times I sent too many texts and that’s not something people like too much and
I’ve been told
obsessive behaviors are a symptom of anxiety

And anyway
I always worried about that
giving so much that I ended up empty
or filled with other people
And now I’m pretty sure I am that
the least bit myself

Like when we met that night and she threw up in a cup,
drunk on mimosas, laughter, and possibility
She left me with pieces of her that I never quite shook

So maybe I feel like I became her
When we stayed up all night kissing/ deliriously laughing at things that weren’t funny
I felt how free she was and I ached for it, badly.
And now I am it
Free
But I never knew free would be so lonely

She found somebody and they’re In love and do yoga and own a dog
and I’m wondering if It’s because I gave her that piece of me
The one that always wanted the love that she now has/

anyway
I feel scattered.