Perhaps

I find you all so funny. How easy you can play with my heart. I’ve been through so many boys. Not sex but experiencing what it truly means to love someone. You all lie. Perhaps it’s my fault. 
Perhaps, I push all of you off the building. Some fall too fast or hit too hard. Caught up in all of the traffic and the busy city lights. You’re blinded. 
Perhaps. 
It can’t be your fault. I’m the one who always leaves. 
I feel I take too many hearts. I fill you up. 
Fill you with happiness, courage, and forgiveness.  And when your bucket is full, I take it away. 
But.
But.
But. 
You don’t know what love is. 
None of you do. You say love is physical. I send you pictures you beg for and all you say is; I love you. 
I’m so fucking empty inside that I convince you to love me. 
I eat everything in your buckets and when their empty I still want more. I am still hungry. Not for lust. 
But to find true love. 
Someone who can mix their bucket into mine and the taste will not be bitter nor sour. 
But sweet, dainty, creamy. 
Something I could never get tired of and as soon as I wake up in the morning to your face it immediately fills back up again. 
And when the high goes away I can always fall back to your bucket. 
But it seems, when the high goes away, your bucket turns grey and sour. 
Is something wrong with me? With us? 
You’re all hungry for my flesh. 
Not for my bucket. 
And that’s when it tips over, spilling, evaporating. 
All of you say lies. 
And when I leave. 
It’s my fault. 
It’s always been my fault.