"I gave you everything." Five words and a full stop, and the poem's whole situation is on the table before a single detail arrives. Lauray's "Lost myself" reads like a ledger of a bad deal: here is what I put in, here is what I got back, here is what is missing. Its central idea is that loving completely can mean giving yourself away, and that the pain afterwards comes not only from being left but from being emptied.
The list of gifts is carefully ordered. Happiness comes first, then heart, then soul. That is a move from the most changeable thing, a mood that can vanish on a bad day, through the organ of feeling, to what people usually treat as the innermost core of a person. The markers "First," "Then" and "Last" make the giving sound like a step-by-step surrender, each stage deeper than the one before. When "Last my soul" arrives, nothing remains to give, and the title clicks into place: if happiness, heart and soul are gone, "myself" is simply the total.
Then comes the poem's only question, "And what did you do?", and it is the hinge. The speaker answers in the same pattern of "First" and "Then," but the comparison is lopsided. She handed over three real things. The other person offered a promise in words ("told me / You would love me") and then withdrew even that: "Then you took it back." His sequence also has no "Last." It just stops, as though he never saw it as a sequence at all. The unevenness is the accusation, and the poem never needs an angry word.
The next lines add an ambiguity. "It" in "took it back" could be the love he promised, but the speaker goes on to say she is "still living without / What I gave to you." One reading is that he reclaimed what was his and kept what was hers. The line break helps here. "Without" sits alone at the end of its line, and the missing thing only arrives in the next one, so the reader feels a small gap before the object appears. The form acts out the lack.
That form is bare. There is no rhyme and no regular meter. The lines are short, mostly end-stopped, and the sentences are plain. The rhythm is halting, like someone keeping her voice level while she lists what happened. The absence of rhyme suits the subject, because nothing in the poem is paired or answered, just as the speaker's giving was never answered. There are few pictures in the usual sense. The central image is a transaction, with feelings treated as objects that can be handed over, withheld and returned. That makes the final wish unexpectedly tender, since she talks about her lost soul the way you might talk about a lent book or a wandering pet that could turn up again.
The echo of "back" is quietly effective. He "took it back," and she hopes it will "come back to me." The same word moves in opposite directions, and the poem ends by hoping for the reversal.
The last sentence also deserves attention: "And wish that one time / It will come back to me again." Its subject has gone missing. After "I'm still living," the "I" drops out, and the wishing seems to happen on its own. Whether or not this was deliberate, it fits the title, because a speaker who has lost herself loses her grammatical self too. The plain phrase "one time," instead of something grander like "one day," keeps the hope small and unadorned. "Again" brings us back to the opening movement of giving, only now the direction is reversed.
What makes the poem worth reading is this restraint. It ends in a fragile wish rather than revenge or a neat consolation, and that is more honest and more painful. It makes no claim to wisdom. Its argument is about imbalance: one person gave everything, the other gave a sentence. Anyone who has felt let down can recognise that arithmetic, and the poem's simplicity lets the reader supply their own story.