I reach out, fearing the rejection,
and am rejected out of hand.
Too late, your love is an infection,
an addiction to which I am damned.

I only want to understand why
you say you love but you leave
me here, alone. Devastated, I cry.
Kicked to the curb with a mighty heave.

The open wound that is my beating heart
asks me why I keep doing this time again?
Willingly accept the poisoned dart
fed to me by those who claim to be a friend.

The answer I give; I don't know.
Because, you see, I don't know myself.
What I want, what I have to do, so
I always turn to other people for help.