As I turmoil over myself, I fill my stomach with numbness to end the strife you gave. The truth is that I allowed you to make me feel that way. I wish I would've thrown your shirt away, into the trash. Instead, I kept all of you in my heart, and you eat your way out. Now, I'm left to myself, open and unappealing. My distress over your escape disgusts the person I thrive to be. The person called me. I am not who you've made. I'm not the one who is saddened by your absence. I'm the one who has joy over your departure, but you have made me something else. It is your fault, but I'll take the blame. I allowed you to break in, and you fought your way out, leaving your trail across my skin. Your presence is known here. I'd like to ignore you, love to forget you, but you remain stuck between then and now. You linger as though you're welcome, but I can only but excuse you. You made me worthless, and that's not me. You took your turn and walked away with your ticket. You did not pay a price; instead, you bargained down to nothing, the price of me. Now, I'm left borrowed; I am used, tattered, and old, with only me. I am destroyed, broken. Nothing remains of me, and I'm left to wonder how you didn't see. What you truly could've spent on me? All I know is the hole now that's shaped like you has a better fit. It is not you now, or you before. It's more of what I should've seen. You could never fit the way I yearned for; it was not you I was searching for. The emptiness resounds, but I've filled it again. With love so amazing, I can hardly see what you've done to me. Love abounds, love remains, over and over, I'm not the same. You can not see me; I do not remain. I am all of him, all I'll ever be. All that is me.