The first time they fired the gun that lives inside my chest,
you stopped the bleeding—

almost like you loved me
or had ulterior motive.

I believed the former, until they pulled the trigger again.
Then, you met another’s eyes, laughed as I bled out.

I wanted the love I’d thought I’d had to warm me while I cried,
but I wouldn’t ask, didn’t trust your arms. I died alone.

Now I haunt your house, a ghost recreating gun shots,
trying to get you to give what I thought I didn’t let myself take—

just wanting missing love, regretting my past actions,
like it wasn’t you who’d already deprived me, 

and from whom I’d kept myself safe.