When he met me,
I was not completely there.
Others had picked at my brain,
taking whatever fits in their beaks.
Some feasted on my body,
spitting back dry bones.
Everyone took a little;
Everyone was broken.
They just needed some extra
skin, bones, thoughts,
to create a new them.
Just as the giving tree,
running out of things to give the boy,
I ran out of things to be taken.
What was left was waste.
Stomping, tearing, burning
my waste,
whatever was left of me.
You cannot make something new,
after burning, destroying it.
You cannot pour water
onto plants, shriveled.
The only growth that can be,
is from a new,
ripe plant with new life.
Until this new life finds me,
I will be here,
discarded with the rest of my youth,
used up and forgotten.