The day I stopped making gifts for people
Is the day I stopped accepting that I was a second choice
The day my pen ran out of ink for your poems
And I burned the love letters that made my wrist ache
Is the day I stopped being taken for granted
My paintbrush fell dry of oil for your portrait
My needle ran out of thread for your sweater
And the gifts I made for you stayed at the bottom of the drawer
For another day
For another person
But never for you
Never again.
