Scraps

For everyone who’s been starving quietly while feeding the world.

I always put others first.
And leave the scraps for myself.

I call it love. I call it loyalty.
But the truth is uglier — I just don’t think I’m worth more.

I bleed myself out in small ways.
Answer the late-night texts. Carry the weight no one else wants to touch. Show up early, stay late, nod through the silence when I’m already starving.
Then when it’s my turn — when the room empties and I’m left with nothing but my own reflection — I scrape at the crumbs like it’s enough.

Sometimes I hear Elliott Smith in the background. Drink up, baby, stay up all night… with the things you could do, you won’t but you might.
That’s what it feels like. Always promising myself more, then giving it away before it ever touches my lips.
Living between the bars. Choosing the ache.

We choose the love we think we deserve. That’s the Paul Rudd line. And maybe I’ve been choosing scraps all along. Training myself to survive on neglect. Applauding the ache like it proves something.

But what if the whole time, I was just rehearsing my own erasure.
What if I keep calling it “selfless” because “unloved” sounds too sharp in the throat.

Here’s the thing: I don’t want to be the one always bleeding for others and starving in private. I don’t want to keep handing out feasts while I eat the scraps.

So the next time my plate’s full, maybe I don’t pass it over.
Maybe I sit down.
And finally eat.

And in that future — the one I can almost see if I squint hard enough — there’s a room with a table lit by my own fire. The first plate goes to me. Not the last. Not the scraps.

If that makes me selfish, then good. I’m done starving.

// Scorpio Veil