There’s only so much me to go around.
I’ve handed out bits of me like merchandise wrapped in crisp brown paper. Carelessly. Trustingly. There’s only so much trust to go around. I imagine the paper being peeled away impatiently, curious fingers prodding at the crumpled piece of soul; I imagine it opening to the touch like a white flower. I’ve handed out pieces of my soul, randomly, and there’s only so much soul to go around.