A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

You had me, in my entirety, without reserve.
A shiny new car, fresh off the lot, barely any mileage
as you drove it home, uninsured. 
There are many definitions of love, and the version
that fell out of my heart was an all-encompassing gift,
a priceless offering of self-sacrifice; I would have relinquished
everything: in fact, I did. 
And that is why I am now a shadowed husk,
broken at your feet. You have used me up. 
I presented you my everything, believing you worthy,
believing you’d understand the value of the gift,
use it wisely, sparingly, sustainably.
A limited resource, a collector’s edition.
If you’d been wise, this engine could have purred
a lifetime, but there was no upkeep.
You never changed the oil; let the tyres wear,
left guano and tree sap etching the paintwork;
the chassis rusts; and ultraviolet rays 
have faded the upholstery. You don’t even lock it 
anymore, it’s not like you think anyone would steal it. 
You don’t really want to part with her: there’s comfort
in the worn footwell, and memories on the back seat,
but the suspension is gone, and the brakes are no longer sure,
and now you’ll start to realise the time and cost required
to attempt refurbishment, and make her roadworthy again. 
Is she worth it? Do you have the skills?
Or is it time for the scrapyard?