My dear heart, you are but a child;
juvenile, naive, and gullible.
You walk, no, you dance through life,
as if expecting every moment
to be filled with nothing but bright
yellow sunshine.
You never learn from your mistakes,
always smiling at strangers,
waving to babies,
humming to the sky,
as if unfettered by your foolish trysts.
Have you forgotten already,
the cumbersome ache you carried
when they left, or when they stayed
simply because you keep giving them,
again, again, yet again, all they wish for.
Are you truly that ignorant,
that you now believe that you're not
the fire people gather around—
and never tend to?
Do you truly think they came back for you?
And you allowed them to stay because
you never realised you're all but the last choice,
last resort, and a home of familiar walls.
Are you that foolish to believe them when they
blame you, then forgive you,
for what never even was your fault,
but their own?
Have you really forgotten all the nights
you wept, sobs muted by the pillow you shoved
down your throat?
Why? Why do you welcome everyone, when
you have reason left to?
You need to mature,
stop people from walking, no, stomping all over you.
You need to realise, dear heart, that you were but a child,
now it's time to grow up into the wise figure time
taught you to be.