I must be doing something wrong—

The only way I know how to love is by giving all I have until they undoubtedly walk away

And I bleed—

Every.

Single.

Time.

Yet the moment I have any chance—

I give my heart in full,
As if anticipating for something to be different—

As if waiting for someone to notice the scars,
And try to mend something unfixable,

Because I’ve come to learn that the people I give me heart to aren’t the problem—

I am—

I shoot the first bullet
And expect it to save them from my poison—

But they’ll always bleed,
Bullet or not.

My poison will burn,
And my bullet will fly—

But I suppose it’s the cost of the wrongs I’ve never tried to right.