"The Cycle"

You don't know how it feels
To be stabbed the second time,
the third time, the fourth time...
You won't feel anything again.
You would only learn the habit 
Of seeing yourself flow out of you in red fluids like a broken pipe.

You despise the morning for bringing the thought of living
You wish for the nights for it bears the alluring face of death. 

"I am a fool again," you exclaim,
"To give you my broken pieces."
"I thought you are a heart-smith."
"But you still cut my debris again."

"To live, is to hurt or be hurt."
"Either ways someone bleeds."
You swore to yourself the umpteenth time
To be in the league of the former.

But your tender brokenness
Gives you away again
You walk back that same way 
You had your first cut
And then, many others.