I know I'm too soft and willing to fix the hurt that you carry, I know myself for being too nosy, too easily involved, too eager to make myself your answer. 

I open up my heart and you take out the blood, like a transplant, like you need it more than I do. I find myself looking back at my mistakes, and how many are tied to my softness, to letting you live in my soul forever, the gaping wound that I don't let myself heal from because if I did, where would you keep yourself? 

They wouldn't take care of you like I do.

Not without these splintered fingers, these thorned arms.

 I'm mine.

But we can say I'm yours when I'm inside your embrace, when your breath is on my neck, when you force my sight into your gorgeous eyes and smile your devilish grin.

 I'm sorry all the time, I'm ashamed of my humanity, I don't want to bother, I don't want to be a story of someone annoying that you tell to people you like more than me, I'm always sure that people don't like me, maybe they're pretending, maybe it's an inside joke, you're nice to me because it's funny, it's funny because I want to believe it, I'm sorry.