Sometimes
I look at you
And when I do, I wonder why you do this to yourself
I gave you hope, but you turned it to a gun and filled it with all the little things and all the big things I have done for you, and they became bullets
All those nights you turned to matches
You swallowed your secrets like pills
And you listened to music until your eardrums became soft like your lips and ultimately cracked
The things those people said to you became a knife which you held to your chest with shaking hands and I stopped your shaking and I stopped you I put an end to it, but then you made arrows from your hurt and your mind was a smooth bow and I wasn't enough and I won't be enough and you snapped the string back you are the one who shot yourself
You shot yourself.
And what was I left with?
Yet another knife in my back and an aching inside that cannot and will not be cured because no amount of medication can undo the pain and I thought I could help you I thought you were different but you weren't.
Because now I have arrows, too, and you left me your gun and those bullets and the knife and the pills.
You left me.
And now I have arrows, too.